


El Viajero del Tiempo

by morituritesalutant



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Aramis/Porthos/Athos - Freeform, Biblical References, Constance/d'Artagnan (both minor relationships), Depression, Gen, Identity Issues, Immigrant blues, M/M, Magic Realism, Multi, Other, POV Changes, Religion, Smoking, Superstition, Vague historical setting, supernatural elements (not the tv-show)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:24:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2066307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morituritesalutant/pseuds/morituritesalutant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis and Porthos meet on the eve of the 1973 Chilean coup d'état. They are both lost in different ways and as they meet they recognise something in each other, but as the 11th of September comes closer, La Moneda is bombed and the city falls under siege, they have to decide what they care most about.<br/>Story focusses on most of the (BBC) characters, not solely Aramis/Porthos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In a way we are all like Scheherezade.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let us start at the near end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as a love letter to Santiago de Chile, but became something else entirely. Isn't that always the case? I should note that the historical events aren't the main focus of the story.  
> Title has been changed, originally taken from a Pablo Neruda poem, of course, of course. A cliché none of us should resist. How could I not, after all it takes place in his country and in the year he died.  
> ❝...Let us look for secret things  
>  somewhere in the world  
>  on the blue shores of silence.

They say in retrospect it becomes clear which of your choices were wise and which were foolish.  
Flea warned him that some people ponder their lives away because of that, always thinking about _what could have been_ , an ancient question that has plagued so many.

Porthos figures that some people also claim that honesty is the best policy and that has clearly never worked on his account, or in the evil eye, a certain kind of superstition he has no faith in at all. Still, he can't resist to confide in Aramis for advice to ensure nothing bad will happen every time he’s convinced one of the ladies in his street has put a curse on him.  
One never knows.  
  
Aramis, _gorgeous loyal Aramis_ , who can’t help but to whisper a short prayer to hold off bad omens whenever they hear a door close loudly in the house without clear cause.  
“It’s the ghosts that live here,” he says without further explanation.  
Treville agrees, but never too loudly, he fears that Anne might hear them, refuse to let them into the café for two weeks and complain “that it’s all superstitious nonsense” until their ears bleed.  
The dear captain remembers the incident with the raining flowers as if it were yesterday, but Porthos has only heard about it in passing to warn him to be quiet around Anne.  
“Believing in these sort of things,” Anne had entrusted in him, "is like chlamydia, it might have been fun when it all started and you picked it up, afterwards it’s all down hill.”  
  
That same Aramis is currently sprawled over his bed, fumbling with a cigarette. Both are comfortable in their nakedness that only comes with the trust they have in the other man. He lights the cigarette and slowly takes a drag. His other hand runs through his hair, a habit he has when he’s thinking.  
  
As is often the case, he tries to hold the cigarette with a certain kind of apathy he believes he must have about everything in life when pretending to belong to intellectual elite.

_In retrospect,_ Porthos decides, he should have seen this coming, the two of them fucking --dare he think it, making love. It was never a question of ‘if’ but more one of ‘when.’ Unconsciously he starts smiling again, thinking of what happened only an hour before.  
Aramis looks at him and smiles back, an urge he can’t resist the way Porthos looks at him.

He hands the cigarette over, slow movements, drawing out the relax feeling one gets from good sex. Porthos takes a few drags before handing it back. He sits against the headboard.  
  
“Remember what you said when we first met?” Porthos murmurs. “I thought you had no humor.”  
  
“I remember. You thought I was stuck-up.”  
  
Porthos nods ‘no’ in disagreement, “Athos was stuck-up, you were arrogant, looking down upon us belonging to the _uneducated masses_.” He smiles at the memory.

They continue to pass the cigarette back and forth between them.  
Imitating Aramis’ accent in French he says, “I am a professor at the university. Sí, Latin-American literature, the best you see. Do I write myself? Well, I wouldn’t share it to someone like you, a Parisian. You think you invented culture, _pendejos_. Of course, Anne has read some of it, but she is...--”  
  
“I do not talk like that," Aramis interrupts weakly, not truly attempting to disagree. He is self-conscious enough to realize that his peculiar shyness for the other man during their first meeting might have appeared as arrogance.  
  
Later he had ranted to Anne that he couldn’t believe, how, he, Aramis, a wit smoother than Don Juan had turned into a mumbling idiot in front of a stranger. Anne had just nodded unsurprisingly to him, like she knew something he didn't.  
  
“Are you going to help me carrying all of this in..?” was all she had asked.   
  
As they put the groceries away in the back of the restaurant she, good friend that she was, has listened to Aramis description of Porthos _stupid_ face and _stupid_ smile and _stupid_ accent.  
  
“He knows nothing of real literature, Anita querida, he’s a boxer, a nomad,” like that explained everything.

“Perhaps you should invite him to one of your lectures, so he can learn,” she had suggested not very subtlety.  
  
“I might, I might,” he had replied as they walked back to the front to get the last packages.  
  
\---

Porthos interrupts his thoughts, “You still haven’t told me one of your own stories.”  
Aramis laughs and extinguishes the cigarette, “Porthos, you need to learn to charm better if that was were you getting at, I thought you were mocking me!”  
Porthos points to their intertwined legs, “I was and I seem to be doing fine.”  
The lazy grin on his face returns, the one always has when he’s flirting with Aramis.  
  
“ _Vale_ , you got me there,” Aramis softly touches his arm, squeezes a bit because he can’t resist.  
Distracted by Porthos's arms, he doesn't notice him moving and before he realizes, Porthos has flipped them over. Aramis like a spread eagle under him, arms held above his head.  
They look at each other for a while, being satisfied by simply studying the other’s face. It’s what being in love does to you.  
Porthos breaks the moment by kissing him softly. It’s a simple one, not born out of passion, but out of the simplicity because it’s possible.

“Oui” Aramis jokes between kisses. “Sí,” more serious this time.  
His arms escape from Porthos’s grip. With one hand he loosely grabs Porthos’s hair at the back of his head, the other moves over to his side, touching, caressing the ribs and then his belly.  
He continues to mumble nonsense, a mix of Spanish and French. Aramis has long given up trying to shut up during sex, Porthos doesn’t seem to mind and keeps kissing him. Slow and deep.  
When he stops, Aramis makes a disappointed sound and automatically moves towards Porthos's retreating lips.  
  
“Tell me one of your stories?” Porthos whispers, appearing embarrassed for daring to ask.  
  
“They are very personal.”  
  
“Too personal for us?” Porthos doesn’t sound disappointed, instead more curious.  
  
“Too soon, to share. I might scare you away.”  
  
“You can’t.” It’s said with so much conviction it takes Aramis’s breath.  
  
Sometimes he still doesn’t believe the fierce loyalty Porthos has for him. He knows they are friends and now lovers, but he's starting to understand that he doesn’t grab the enormity of it yet.  
Everything with Porthos is so easy, he appears to have no restrictions nor fears, but deep down he knows Porthos has his own insecurities.  
He sometimes comments how people never liked him, even within their group he tends to stick close to Aramis and Athos.  
  
In that moment Aramis wishes he could show him how kind he is, how much he has changed all of their lives. He remembers how happy Porthos was when Anne told them she was pregnant, the way he talks to Constance.   
  
He only thinks in ‘before Porthos’ and ‘after Porthos.’  
His kindness makes something lose in Aramis, makes him too honest. He knows the thrumming in his veins isn’t out of fear, but excitement. He _can’t_ fuck this up.  
  
“Sometimes you meet someone and you recognize them from a long time before.  You see them and think ‘I need us to be friends again.’  
It’s a desperate notion that sits in your bones and won’t let you go until you die or have succeeded.  
But sometimes you encounter someone and you realize it is the first time you’ve met them, but if you play it right you will meet again every time until history is over.”

“If you're going to tell me that we knew each other in another life, I’m outta here.” Porthos says.  
  
“As if I would come up something that clichéd. You hurt me, Porthos.”  
  
Aramis motions melodramatically towards his chest. “I’m a different genre of Romanic all together.” He resumes the story.

"In a way we are all like Scheherezade, we tell stories so we can stretch time, in order not to die,” Aramis is silent.  
“In order to be here in this place a little longer. To exist at all.”  
  
Porthos smiles back, his eyes reflect his understanding, still he can’t help but check.  
  
"Is this..?"  _about us_ goes unsaid.  
  
Aramis laughs softly "I will make this night last a little longer like Scheherezade did, but if you continue to interrupt, I will stop.”  
  
“Okay” Porthos whispers apologetically to Aramis. “Okay” he repeats.  
  
Aramis stays silent for a bit. He feels Porthos breath on his face, they have moved side to side, face to face.  
  
“My great great great grandmother from my mothers side was called Salvadora, after her country.A name entirely inappropriate because she had a neck for getting people into problems and spent most of her childhood on house arrest, then most of her life in prison.  
Still, as God sometimes does, after all humans take after him, he had chosen her as one of his favorites."  
  
Aramis grabs one of the water bottles next to the bed and takes a sip. He silently offers it to Porthos, who declines, and puts it back next to the bed.  
  
"They say her father was a Taino who excelled at swimming and had once crossed from Puerto Rico to El Salvador for an afternoon’s entertainment, but had fallen in love and stayed.  
Can you imagine, Salvadora must have been the most beautiful dark skinned Jeanne d’Arc, but she was a witch too so she wasn’t too impressed by what God told her to do all the time. Perhaps that’s why he liked her so much.  
  
Salvadora gave birth to a little girl who on her turn married a man by the the name of Nasir Al-Rahman.  
It was said he was a descendant of the emir of Córdoba. This emir had belonged to the dynasty of the Ummayads, but a revolt orchestrated by Abbasids forced him to flee from his home in Damascus. He was the only one of his family to survive and the prince became an exile.  
  
His travels took him to many places, an epic in and of itself, but eventually he arrived in Spain and became the powerful ruler history still remembers.   
Spain on her turn would ‘discover’ the New World --we all know how that ended-- and in that same year the last city of the Muslim empire fell. A new kind of age had dawned upon the world and in one of the first ships to the new colonies the last heir of Al-Rahman had hidden himself.

Salvadora’s daughter and Al-Rahman could not get a baby, no matter how much they tried. And tried they did, with great enjoyment, believe me. It’s been said that’s why everyone in my family is the way we are." Aramis winks.  
  
"Anyhow. Even when they pleaded to Maria, the only woman we are all loyal to, she could not get pregnant. And so the daughter went to her mother the witch and asked for her help.  
Salvadora could not deny her daughter anything, as mothers often can’t, and took clay from the Sierra Madre mountains and water from the sea and sculpted a beautiful baby boy. What happened next, we can only speculate about, but nine months later La Salvadora’s daughter gave birth to a son."  
  
Aramis takes another sip from the bottle, this time Porthos mirrors him.  
  
"Her mother made her swear that her kid would never leave the continent, because everything would fall apart when the baby crossed the ocean. After all, clay crumbles when it touches water. This is the curse for the family name that came with the blessing on an heir.  
To celebrate this miraculous baby they named it Abdallah al-Rahman after the first emir of Córdoba."

"You're shitting me, right?" Porthos exclaims.  
  
"Shut up, amor, it’s a story, you should listen and not insult your teller." Aramis laughed. "One can say strange names are my family’s legacy," he continued mockingly.

"It was the sad truth that Abdallah al-Rahman had been cursed with a kind of inner indecisiveness, something some might call ‘wanderlust,’ yet he was bound to the Continent. He, unlike you dear Porthos, took the superstition of our _abuelos_ very serious. Still, he took great comfort in seeing the wonders of _lo real maravilloso_  one only finds in South America.  
  
It was upon one of his adventures that he met another young man. Perhaps he was deep into the Andes or on a sandy road in Chiapas joining a Revolution, who knows.  
  
This young men was taller than any of the threes Abdalrahman had ever seen, but he moved his body with the ease of a dancer so one always forgot what a giant he was. If he wished, he could have plucked the clouds from the skye and make you a warm soft bed from it.   
Don't believe the fools that say the heavens are made of rain, like it would be that simple.

He wore the unlikely name the Elk, because he shared the same beautiful hair color with this animal. Abdalrahman had never seen an elk before, as it is an animal most common in North America, and understood that this man came from a place faraway.  
Unlike Abdalrahman, the Elk wasn’t traveling because he was looking for something new, instead he was traveling because he had lost something.  
  
It was for this reason that Abdallah al-Rahman gave him the nickname his own namesake had once bore with pride, al-Dakhil.  
  
The immigrant.  
  
Our story is about these unlikely companions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is very different from the rest, as it is a flash forward of sorts. Aramis was talking a lot this time (I couldn't shut him up for some reason), that will change as well. Thank you for reading.  
> Weekly updated, more often if I can manage. :) It's been entirely written, all I need to do is some serious editing.


	2. To lose to an Angel’s game.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos arrives in Chile and rekindles his friendship with Athos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter is going to haunt me until the day I die. I accidentally deleted it once and then I uploaded the wrong version, but a long story short, this is finally the correct version and very different (and hopefully much better!) from what was uploaded first, except for Aramis' story that has remained the same. My sincere apologies.  
> \--  
> Other than that, Aramis' story will come to an end by chapter 6 because by then the events of the first chapter will catch up, if the story bothers you too much: I won't force it on you much longer.  
> I forgot to add Aramis/Athos/Porthos in the tags, but the relationship between les inséparables does become increasingly important during the story. It's not slash however. (and most canon relationships will be discussed at one point or another, I will tell you accordingly.)  
> Some references to past Flea/Porthos.

“When Abdalrahman saw the Elk he knew that they would be great friends, for they had been so before.   
It was for this reason he wasn’t too worried about first impressions and had no shame in asking his new friend intimate aspects of his life.  
  
Perhaps the most exceptionally rude one was how much money the Elk made a year. Still, the good man accepted this stranger in his life without question and bravely answered to the rapid fire of concerns Abdalrahman laid before him.

(‘No job, so no steady income.’ ‘For the better,’ Abdalrahman ensured him with a pat on the back.)  
  
Yet just as he was starting to enjoy himself, he noticed the sadness displayed on his friend’s face.  
  
‘What’s the matter al-Dakhil?’  
The Elk answered him with a foreign sounding word. His answer disturbed our dear friend Abdalrahman. He had never heard of this sickness that possessed the Elk.

‘But what does it mean?’ he had asked.  
  
‘It means wanting to go home, but being unable to,’ the Elk had answered.  
  
For the heir of la Salvadora this was a concept he could not comprehend. Never in his entire life had he confronted this heart’s disease and could not imagine what it felt like.  
_Homesickness_ , he felt the hairs on his arm rise by simply thinking of the word. He repeated it with disgust, the foreign sound remained unfamiliar.  
  
‘Is it fatal?’ he whispered.  
‘I’m afraid so,’ the Elk answered.  
‘But is there nothing we can do?’  
  
Abdal al-Rahman was not ready to lose this fascinating friend, for he hadn’t taken him to see the great birds of the condor that dared to fight bulls and came out as victors or the towers that held up the sky at Aconcagua in the valley of the cows.  
  
‘There is. I must find my home again, but is has long been lost.’ The Elk’s voice echoed his great pain.  
‘Then we must travel to the world of lost things,’ Abdalrahman said earnestly, surprised his new friend had not thought of this simple solution.”

-

“--I thought this story was going to be about us.” Porthos interrupts.  
  
“Dios mio. It is.” Aramis takes another cigarette out of the package and lights it. “Patience is a virtue you know.”  
  
“One you are completely unfamiliar with, _amor_ ,” Porthos laughs, repeating Aramis’ favorite petname.  
Aramis decides best to ignore the comment.

“Westerners will never understand,” he waves the cigarette around his head. “You want everything clearly spelt out and to the point, but some stories you must figure out yourself.”   
  
He gives the cigarette to Porthos, who takes a couple of drags.  
  
“Take any advice for example. If you tell someone what to do they might not listen or even understand it, but when you tell it through a fable the listener has to understand and internalize it themselves. They will take from the story that what they needed to hear, but knew all along. That’s why this story is for us, because of what we take from it.”  
  
Porthos hands him the cigarette back.  
“Now, Abdalrahman had forgotten in his frenzy he could not leave the Continent...”

* * *

 

Porthos arrived in Santiago de Chile on a cold Sunday in August 1973.  
There was nothing remarkable to note about this day that would make it last in the pages of history, but for Porthos his arrival in Santiago marked, unbeknownst to him, the start of his life. 

It’s been said that some folk don’t start living until their 50s after they buy a shiny red car they’ve wanted since they were sixteen and some think they do, but truth be spoken settle into an empty shell that they call force of habit, and some live their lives to the fullest even before birth, but for Porthos it truly started on this insignificant day meant for leisure, confession and doing nothing.

The vision of Chile’s capital in its smog-covered valley came with a sense of relief and fear of the unknown that settled in his stomach and occasionally rose to his heart and mind the further he entered the city. 

_Change_ , it whispered through the barking of stray dogs, cars zooming, the trash on the sideways, girls laughing, the smells of fresh _humitas_.  
Although there wasn’t anything particularly seductive in these first impressions, Porthos was enthralled.

A place so different than his own. Paris suddenly appeared simple and bourgeois, a city that still clung to its old European glory and desperately pretended to remain a center of art and political exchange, but in reality had settled in dust, dirt, damaged glass windows and the disappointment of its young students.

He couldn’t resist comparing his Paris to this Santiago.  
If to breath in Paris preserved the soul, Santiago took your breath by making you charge the pickpocket that would sell your soul for a dime and perhaps you didn’t mind that much, _sell it_ , you would beg, anything so you could stay a little longer.

A lesser man might have been jealous, but to Porthos Santiago appeared as an impossibility, locked between mountains that graced the horizon. The occasionally moving giants of the Andes had their backs turned to the city and Porthos wasn’t sure whether they served as protective ring of ancient guardians or held their faces towards something he couldn’t see, more interesting faraway, tired of human banality.

The leafless vineyards that laid around the city gave one an air of deceptive friendliness before confronting its visitor with the _zona poniente_ where the city's poorest dwelled. The peasants walking along the side of the road were still dressed in their Sunday’s best and self-consciously Porthos looked at his own choice of appearance.  
Porthos liked to imagine himself metaphorically and truthfully dressed in rags to present the hardships he had confronted during his journey, but in reality he was cold to the bone simply because he was dressed inadequately for the weather. 

He would never admit it aloud, but he had forgotten the existence of different hemispheres, the Southern one to be specific.  
August; winter-- spring? He wasn’t sure and too proud to ask which season he was in.

A burst of adrenaline gave speed to his pace: he had returned to the land of the living after weeks of traveling through the countryside and barely sleeping. A city-dweller that replaces stone for mud can’t survive long. 

The only time he had tried to rest his head against the window of a bus the rocky road had given him a minor concussion.  
An elderly lady had mocked him for it, but the jokes on his expanse had turned into an exchange of personal grieves and she had told him in a mix of Chilean Spanish and Mapudungun about the lives she had lived, stories filled with giants snakes, burned villages, failed harvests, unfortunate love, death and rebirth.

His own troubles seemed shallow compared to hers, but nonetheless she had encouraged him to speak of them.  
He explained that as many people his age, he had reached the end of his twenties and realized he had no idea what he wanted with his life and no real friends to support him or push him into trying to figure it out.

In order to ‘find himself again’ as Flea, his ex-girlfriend, had put it, he had decided to retrace his roots and travel to Haiti where his mother had been born. But after two weeks of walking around on the island mindlessly, he felt more lost than ever. In an impulse he had called a friend that owned him a favor.

A hundred _vales_ and _qués_ later, he finally reached Athos. 

Dear Athos, who had still sounded the same on the pay-phone; dry humor intertwined his cordial responses.   
Dear Athos who had pretended not be overjoyed when he heard Porthos had crossed the Atlantic ocean on a whim carrying only a backpack and his natural talent for being liked by everyone he came across and Athos had called him “a lucky bastard” instead and then had told him to “hold on” followed by a string of swearwords underlaid with affection directed to someone called Aramis “But why?! You idiot” and d’Artagnan “Why do I even like you?” 

The call had disconnected, but a few minutes later he had called back and affirmed to Porthos that he had indeed returned to Santiago after the Parisian debacle and the drowning incident.   
Athos had given him the address of a hostel by the name of Señorita Treville’s, where he had already ensured him a room and where he could stay for an indefinite period of time. 

“A strange place, freaks me out, but you’ll like it.” 

Along with the address he had been received directions, a list of which _barrios_ not to enter under any circumstances and the advice better not to accept any taxi, just to be sure.  
“Fucking tourists,” might have been muttered, but Porthos forgave Athos as he understood the sentiment about the foolishness of the thousands that visited his own city all too well.  
All he could do was laugh and thank him, partially because he had missed the way Athos spoke and partially because of the relief to have something to look forward to after the failure of Haiti.

Señorita Treville’s in the barrio Brasil, as it turned out, was run by a man. Athos had told him earlier on the phone that the original señorita had been the man’s sister, but she had run off with an American and started a chicken farm in Minnesota.   
Her brother had taken over twenty years ago and never changed the name.

He was ex-military, but too soft hearted to be truly dedicated and had retired early.  
Nobody remembered the war he had fought in or whether or not they had won, especially not the government, so at the time Porthos met Treville he didn’t receive any form of pension and therefore rented out some of the rooms in the old town house. 

Out of respect everyone still called Treville ‘captain’ and Athos had emphasized that even if the captain ordered him not to address him with the title, to continue using it. The captain’s own insistence on being referred to simply ‘señor Treville’ or even ‘tío Juan-Armando’ was pure humility and was to be ignored.

Armed with this knowledge he had arrived in the late afternoon. His first impression of the captain was that they would undoubtedly enjoy each other’s company. The other man had sat behind a desk when he entered the building and welcomed him solemnly with a nod and had offered him a hand. Porthos had bowed awkwardly over the desk to shake it.   
Everything around and about him was perfectly in order, clothes ironed impeccably and even his mustache was in superb condition. Porthos, not unfamiliar with vanity himself, appreciated the effort he could see it all had taken.

Treville appeared to him the father-figure he had always wished for and Porthos looked forward to spending time with the good captain. After their formal introductions, Treville had taken him into the kitchen and put him on a seat that had cracked under his weight.  
He was offered some mate and they had talked politics, as customs demands.

Weeks later, after Treville and he had grown close by force of proximity and general shared interests, the older man had told him he wished he had died in the-forgotten-war.   
“You leave the war behind, return home either victor or as a failure and the world continues.  
But wars never pass, my son, perhaps only the dead have seen the end of war for they continue somewhere else and soldiers never become boys again.”

Trevile was convinced he would not die old in bed, “perhaps when I’m a 103 I’ll get knifed in Puente Alto. To die under the open sky: that would be a good death at last.”  
A loud laugh had escaped Porthos when he imagined a 100+ old Treville fighting a knife-fight and this had deeply insulted the man. It took Porthos days to get back into his good graces.  
  
\--

Athos had been right, as he was often about Porthos, he promptly fell in love with the hostel the moment he entered it. Its façade had one of those faces houses sometimes have that expressed a combination of melancholy and wisdom earned by time and the lushes greens that once proudly ornated the front were flaking off.  The mansion cracked from the history it had seen, expressed in the bullet holes in the stairs and the slight nauseating smell of rotting that had no clear origin. 

It appeared tired and to move continuously, unable or unwilling to bear the burden much longer, but only carrying on out of duty, much like its owner. The image of a ship arose in Porthos’ mind every time he thought of the stone building and when the house would sigh too loudly he occasionally feared it would sink.   
The house gave its occupant the unnerving idea they had forgotten something important or the ominous feeling that something was very wrong, a sentiment vaguely staying in the back of your head that you can't let it go because it impossible to remember what it was.

The four walls of Porthos’ pink room were covered in multitudes of shelfs full of dusty and forgotten books, giving anybody who came in the sense that they had just entered a rainforest with threes that had been made into pages.

He shared a bathroom, but during his entire stay Porthos never saw any of the other tenants. By the time he would leave he still wasn't entirely sure if there had been any at all, if it hadn't been for the shadows that had moved silently behind close doors.   
The eery feeling that there was more to it that met the eye often overwhelmed him in those weeks in Santiago, for what better place than a hostel to stock and exchange souls between different worlds and who better than a military officer to oversee it all.

The other rooms that weren’t ‘occupied’ were completely empty of furniture.   
Treville explained to him that a pair of young ladies had arrived two years ago before breakfast and had told him they had come for the furniture. He didn’t know them, assumed nothing and had thus politely invited them in.  
They had loaded every single piece of furniture into their truck, had driven away and had yet to return. Porthos suggested that the two girls might have been thieves and Treville agreed “that it was most likely.”  
He appeared not to find it a very strange occurrence and Porthos decided best to adapt and accept and not to mention the subject again.

  
Alone in his room he settled on his bed and lighted a cigarette. Flea had hated him smoking, but since they broke up he had taken it up again, not out of spite, but simply because he could.  
Although he had been excited upon arrival, in the quiet moment alone desperation overwhelmed him.   
This was the place he would live for the next month until his money ran out and he wasn’t sure about anything, about his decisions, about what he wanted: the same questions that had haunted him in Paris, in Haiti and now would in Santiago. 

The journey to Chile had distracted him and given him a purpose, but the arrival and unfamiliarity of a strange city pooled together into a feeling of simply put ‘what the fuck am I doing here.’ 

Pace, pace, cigarette drag, pink wall--window, a treasury of undiscovered books, the moaning of the house. Frustration replaced desperation.  
Suddenly conscious of himself, his shoulders too broad, his body filling up the room and the walls coming closer until he was convinced he had entered a dollhouse made him burst out of the mansion. 

He waved a vague goodbye to the captain as he ran down the stairs moments later he was outside again and the feeling was gone.   
Fear had been chased away by the fresh air of twilight and the claustrophobic emotions of before were but a dream one can’t remember after waking up.  
It seemed silly now, yet he still wasn’t willing to go back inside.  
  
He put on the old jacket that the kind captain had given him out of pity, started walking and slowly tried to accept his fate. --A fate he had chosen himself as only the optimists of the world believe they can do.  
  
\--

Sauntering through the barrio and its twin Yungay gave Porthos the impression that it once must have been a center of wealth, overflowing in decadence and excessive behavior and despite its decay its strange appearance spoke volumes about the pride its inhabitants still took in the neighborhood, _and with reason_ he admitted to himself.

Athos had suggested they would meet in a restaurant near Señorita’s Treville and Porthos arrived a little early due to the fact he had fled the house in a hurry. The restaurant looked like it flickered in and out of existence, but inside it appeared pleasant and warm.  
After some thought he decided to wait outside in fear of missing Athos’ arrival.

He searched through his pockets and found nothing but empty lies and a harmonica: the small and unbreakable instrument that is the brave companion of many a nomad. He pulled it out and played mindlessly, a sign that his nerves weren’t completely gone.   
Blues tunes filled the street, the only kind of music that truly embodies the stories of the lost and the heartbreaking sounds affected the pedestrians openly, but all tried to hide it.  
  
While most of them ignored him, a young kid approached him after a few minutes.   
They stopped in front of Porthos, invading his personal space. Porthos stopped playing and quickly stepped back, but politely nodded in greeting. 

“You’re willing to sell?” the kid said, sounding much older than their body suggested.  
Their old voice ricocheted against the walls and Porthos tried to study their face, but could only see the child if he watched through his eyelashes or with the corners of his eyes, a direct stare and the kid disappeared again.  
“This simple thing?”  
A peculiar way to start a conversation, but it didn’t matter, for another voice broke the spell and shattered the heavy silence that had replaced the music.

“Porthos! I hope you won’t be lead into temptation by selling your instrument?” Athos’ voice carried over from the other side of the street.

“Athos!” Porthos turned away and hugged his approaching friend tightly.   
“Still seeing the devil on every street corner? Your paranoia is reaching new levels, my friend.”  
Porthos laughed, “and I’m pretty sure you’re messing up your urban legends, you sell your _soul_ not your instrument to play like no one else but the devil can.”

Athos gestured to the spot the kid had been moments before. “Aah but Porthos, as is often the case, you are mistaken. You encountered no devil, it was an Angel instead you see.” 

“By all means mock me.”   
A small smile appeared on Athos’ face, he like so many could not keep a straight face when Porthos laughed so openly, without shame, a laugh that took over his whole body.

“You can’t really blame them trying to trick you. I mean, imagine being damned to an eternity of righteous behavior, not one sin passes their lips of finds its way through their hands. They must be terribly bored.” Athos mused.   
“I would be for sure, better to sell your soul to the devil than to lose to an Angel’s game.” He sighed and feigned to have lost his interest.  
 "How come all of our conversation immediately turn serious! Come, let us go inside and speak of it no more.”  
  
Athos was about to enter, but Porthos embraced him again. He let go of a breath he hadn't realized he had held.  
“I’ve missed you greatly, my friend, there is much we need to speak off.” Porthos quietly added.  
“Indeed. But first a drink. I have someone to introduce you to.”  
This time Porthos laughed. “Of course, Athos, lead the way.”  
  
\--

At a table in a hidden corner Athos introduced him to a young man that went by the name of d’Artagnan, a student of his, but who seemed to fulfill the role of Athos’ protege if not errant boy. Athos clearly liked him, even if he hid it in small insults and fatherly advice.   
  
The boy was an exchange student from Mumbai, was easy going if not a bit hotheaded and told Porthos everything about his family’s farm back home in the first ten minutes of the conversation.  
Like Athos, he spoke French with Porthos and he gallantly expressed his thanks by buying them another bottle after the waiter had brought them their dinner.

d’Artagnan had arrived a year ago to study history at the Universidad de Chile and during a guest-lecture he had found himself in discussion with the orating professor that had continued after the class and hadn’t ended the whole way into the canteen, the humanities hallways and Athos’ office.   
  
They had fundamentally disagreed on everything, but shared the same ideals and d’Artagnan had left four hours later with unbridled enthusiasm, the promise to return the next day to continue the discussion and a small nod of approval from Athos.  
He had never stopped following Athos since then.  
(It embarrassed Porthos that he had forgotten what Athos himself specialized in, but felt it was too late to ask again.)  
  
Athos expressed he had been impressed by the rapid pace in which d'Artagnan had learned Spanish and Porthos admitted that he had the intention of learning the language as well, since he was always willing to learn more.  
  
“A self-made man!” Athos exclaimed, the reunion with his friend had made him looser and for a brief moment it was almost as if the old Athos had returned for one evening to celebrate with them before pulling back into the solemn sarcastic man he had become.

“I’ve had a great teacher” d’Artagnan said dreamily lost in thought, “I can introduce you to her later, she is my landlady.”  
“Thank you, that would be great.” Porthos understood why Athos had taken a liking to the boy.  
“I’m looking forward to it” he ensured d’Artagnan. 

Two hours flew by in the company of these pleasant intellects until Porthos remembered the knife he had found on the side of a road in Bolivia.   
He pulled it out and in the dim light the three men could clearly see the engravings on the blade.  
_Not to bring peace to the earth_  and on the other side it spelled  _but a sword_.  
The knife was a work of art and who ever lost it must have surely mourned.

“Appears to be a bible verse” Athos said after studying both sides and returned it to Porthos’ hands.  
“You should show this to Aramis tomorrow, he can tell you more.”  
“Aramis?”  
“You need to meet him for sure,” d’Artagnan added, admiration echoing in his tone.  
“A colleague of mine” Athos offered. “He was a priest in another life time, more a sinner than a saint and cared too much about the poor for the church’s liking.”  
“So he became a professor?” Porthos asked, putting the knife away again.   
“Not that different, you stand in front of a group of people and preach what you believe is the truth.” Athos shrugged.

“He’s very intense,” d’Artagnan said thoughtfully, “he’s unable to see injustice happen, gets involved too much.”  
“Too much for his own good, much like you.” Athos added. “You’ll like him, a real knight in shining armor.”  
“You no longer do, Athos?” Porthos asked.  
“I’ve accepted the truth that things won’t easily change and when they do,” Athos sighed, “never in the way you wished to see it. I’m not naive enough to keep fooling myself.”  
“I was almost afraid I had lost my favorite pessimist,” Porthos said.  
Athos smiled faintly. “I will drink to that.”   
  
\--

It was almost midnight when they walked d’Artagnan home. He was staying in a small elegant corner-house not far from señorita Treville's. Porthos knocked carefully on the door, for d'Artagnan had forgotten his key and was not steady enough on his feet to do so himself.   
Moments later a light was switched and a young woman stormed out of the house.  
  
“You!” was all she said.  
  
d’Artagnan attempted to hide behind the two taller men, without much success, and looked shamefully at his shoes, not daring to make eye contact with the red-haired landlady.  
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”  
“Well, you did.”   
The clear worry on the woman’s face and d’Artagnan’s red ears made Porthos suspect that the boy’s talent for Spanish might have had more to do with his adoration for his teacher than his talent alone.

“Let me introduce you to your new student, Constanzia,” Athos interrupted, leading her attention away from d’Artagnan, who continued to look like a kicked dog.  
“One that can’t pay you, I must say.” He offered his hand. “Porthos.”  
“We will figure something out,” Constance said, kissing him on his cheeks instead.  
“You’re with Athos,” as if that explained it all.

She asked Athos something in Spanish, ignoring d’Artagnan on purpose, and they continued speaking rapidly, too fast for Porthos to understand.   
The unfamiliar language was similar, yet very different from his own French, and the melody intrigued him.  
As he looked at them exchanging words, for the first time in his life he didn’t mind being a stranger. A warm feeling spread through him. His reunion with Athos, d’Artagnan’s immediate acceptance, Constance’s hospitality.  
He felt included even though he didn’t understand a word of what was said and a deep gratefulness settled where  desperation had taken home only hours before.

Once Constance and d’Artagnan had entered the house, the two of them joking privately, Porthos lighted another cigarette and suggested they get going.   
Comfortable in silence he and Athos walked to señorita Treville’s, shoulders brushing, cigarette sharing. The tip burned bright in the evening and the street lamps illuminated their faces.  
A certain kind of sadness that often comes with late evenings and a city asleep fell over them both. Athos broke the silence by ensuring him he would be all right, he had felt Porthos’ worries without speaking as close friends and brothers often can.  
After the short walk they parted with another embrace.

“I missed you my friend,” Porthos said into his neck.  
“As I you,” Athos returned.

Inside his room Porthos noticed he didn’t mind the moving of the house anymore, it gave him a sense of protection instead.  
He settled on his small bed, hands behind his head and stared to the ceiling lost in thought, while the cigarette burned away in his mouth.

 _It had been a strange day_ he mused and without clear reason he felt the push to grab one of the book from a shelf next to his bed.   
He attempted to blow off the dust from the cover as he had seen so often in movies, but when that failed he wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt.   
_El reino de este mundo_ , it said, he traced the image on the front, a black man with a sword, it seemed appropriate.  
  
He opened it to find out its author and discovered a green feather instead, hidden between the pages.   
_For how long_ he wondered vaguely as he held it in the light of the lamp.  
  
It wasn’t until days later that he would ask Aramis about it, who would solemnly tell him about the quetzal, the paradise bird that the feather belonged to.   
"The conquistadores had come to Guatemala and Tecún Amán had taken a stand against the Spaniards. Many nights and days he fought bravely, but the coward Pedro de Alvadaro ended his life by piercing his heart. In his dying moments the green bird had flown down to the warrior-prince and the blood from Tecún’s wounds had colored its chest red. For this reason all quetzal birds remain red-breasted until this very day.   
Some even say every bird carries a soul of the fallen people of the Americas in them."

Aramis had returned the feather.  
"Since the conquest over the Mayas it has not sung once, but when the land is truly free again, its song will be heard once more."

Even without knowing this story at the feather’s discovery, Porthos felt the importance of its history close. A chance of tides was coming, for him or perhaps for everyone, he did not know yet.

He put the feather in his cap and laid down on his bed, exhausted. Not much later a dreamless sleep overwhelmed him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They smoke a lot, I know, but back in the time it was not yet considered bad for one's health.  
> Porthos quotes Victor Hugo without shame: 'Respirer Paris, cela conserve l'âme.' His love for Paris will return.  
> 'El reino de este mundo' is a book by the cuban Alejo Carpentier that tells the story about the Haitian Revolution, the only successful slave revolt in history. He was one of the first to give a name to 'magic realism.' I definitely recommend it!  
> There are some other references, but those are the two most important ones I suppose. Oh, and it's pretty 'faust-themed' of course as my mother would say, that too is not my original work. ;3  
> I'm not on schedule anymore, because I had to attend a funeral, but I'll try to upload the next chapter in a few days, guess who's going to meet who in chapter 3. :)  
> Thank you for reading once more!


	3. The city will follow you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos meets the rest of the gang and isn't sure what to think of Aramis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned Anne/Louis, past Aramis/Anne, implied past Aramis/Marsac (blink and you'll miss it) with canon character death.  
> There is also a brief reference to bestiality. (I'm sorry, it's García Márquez his fault?), as well as to panic attacks/trauma. There is also a shortly expressed fear for homophobia, which will be discussed in some other chapters.  
> This chapter is a little over 7000 words (my god), so I hope the wait was worth it :) thank you again!

\--  _(Aramis continues his story)_

"The Elk appreciated Abdalrahman’s friendship greatly even though he occasionally feared to appear ungrateful when he didn’t speak for days.   
But Abdalrahman, kind stranger that he was, didn’t seem to mind at all and filled the silences with dramatic stories of lost cities and beautiful women.   
Most of which were without a doubt made up and greatly exaggerated, a fact that made them all the more fun.

He knew something about everything and his enthusiasm to show his new friend his favorite parts of the Continent made the Elk forget his longing to go home. He saw forests the size of five countries and flying dolphins on the Southern coast of Brasil.

For a while they even joined a traveling circus and had an act in which Abdalrahman did acrobatics and the Elk had a spectacle with horses, birds and fire.   
‘Al-Dakhil, we make quite a team!’ Abdalrahman would should after every performance, high on adrenaline and even the Elk would occasionally laugh and agree with him.  
Still, his pain lingered after every finished sentence, behind every day that passed, and for a long time the only word that came out of his mouth was  _cuándo_ , asking  _when_  they would leave again.  
The people of the circus did not speak Spanish and naturally concluded it was Abdalrahman’s name. Soon everybody called him ‘When’ and eventually even Abdalrahman himself forgot he had ever had a different name than Cuándo.

After his initial optimism Abdalrahman had realized that finding the world of lost things was no easy task. His mother had warned him many times and she often complained that all her bobby pins would disappear and that she had never found one again after it was lost. Abdalrahman feared the day this would be true for the Elk's home as well.

He had tried to distract them both, but he understood that such a pain like al-Dakhil’s should not to be ignored. It would only grow larger and larger until it would take over one’s mind and body completely until one would crumble from pain and die of a broken heart.

‘Very well then’ Abdalrahman had concluded one late afternoon and had suggested they would search a seer for advice. They left the circus and travelled many days until they found one, but misfortune was on their side; the man was unwilling to help.   
He did not believe his own prophesies and swore that he could only see lies. He had once predicted that he would marry an incredible woman and they would be together always, but he had killed her after she had tested his loyalty by claiming she had killed his brother.  
_If only I would have had faith_ , he often said to himself, but he had lost it all when he challenged his destiny.  
  
The murder had given him the horrible name Uxoricidus, but the two friends decided to refer to him only as  _Akhoonaa_.  
He was cynical and rude, but Abdalrahman and the Elk agreed he had every reason to be the way he was. As a kid he had been blinded by his parents, for they had believed his second sight would develop better if he had no first sight at all.

He told them he had given up on the whole ‘predicting the future’-gig, but he did know where the world of lost things was.   
He explained that it was an island near the coast of Perú, made of things that had been lost on sea and elsewhere. It had grown and grown as more lost rubbish washed on its shores.  
‘Gracias a Dios’, Abdalrahman had exclaimed believing the hardest part of their quest was over. A naive thought we can't hold against him. They invited the seer to join them and the three companions set off in the right direction, at last."

  
\--

Athos had promised Porthos to introduce him to everyone “who’s important in this city” at a place called Anne’s.

His words might have hidden Athos’ rejection of the elite that he originally belonged to, but his face had shown his private mockery of the upper class; one would never encounter the rich and powerful in a place like the one he was leading Porthos to. 

Athos was even more reserved than usual, if such a thing was possible, and looked like he hadn’t closed his eyes since they had parted the night before.   
Once every few minutes his body would jerk strangely, an instinctive reaction to a memory.   
He looked around anxiously, as though he had seen someone he knew, but shook his head after realizing it was only his imagination playing cruel tricks on him. 

“It’s a phantom that broke my heart before I met you and she won’t let me go,” Athos said, unable to hide his mourning from his friend. Porthos kept quiet, for everything has its time and place and some things must be experienced alone.

In Porthos' daydreams the streets of Santiago became the city’s veins and the people the blood that ran through it and kept it alive.  
He toyed with hope that they would never arrive. He imagined he could keep walking with Athos until the soles of their shoes had been completely worn out, marching barefoot until they were too tired to continue.  
He told Athos this, but his friend only shook his head at the shameless awe expressed in Porthos' voice.

Porthos pointed to the sky and melodramatically added that the sun that was shining on their faces “must be another sun, for sure!”   
“How nice for you,” Athos solely commented.  
“Well, don’t explode from enthusiasm,” Porthos said, “any other constructive feedback or adjectives you might want to add?”

If hadn’t been the non-believer he was, he would admit this day felt different, important, but he lacked the poetic talent to express it. All he knew was that he was giddy with excitement and that whatever it was, it was closing in on him, like a voluntary noose made with the threat of the Morai.  


\--  


Anne, he learned, was both a woman and a café.   
Officially named 'La Reina,' its guests preferred to refer to the place by the owner’s name.  
Over the years the name Anne had become synonym to ‘queen’ in the neighborhood and the younger students that had never even visited La Reina flirted with girls by calling them their Ana, completely unaware of the origin of the student slang.

It was a tiny restaurant that was overrun by students and faculty-members throughout the day, most of them sitting outside on the bronze chairs scattered over the pavement. The professors often settled in the back and a few more confident students dared to take place at the bar, where they glanced at them hoping for an opportunity to be invited into the conversations. 

The rush started early in the morning with students waiting patiently outside before it opened to quickly drink coffee with half closed eyes and eat toasted bread with _manjar_ or olive oil before Anne herded them out to their classes.

However, most arrived during the day to eat in between classes, seduce their dates with tapas and Anne kept the place open until two in the morning, to make sure everybody had eaten their dinner.  
Athos admitted he had no idea how she did it with only the help from Constance, who worked there as a waitress, and mused --or hinted, Porthos wasn’t sure-- that Anne surely could use some help.

Porthos asked how Athos had first heard of the miraculous café and Athos had explained to him that Aramis had dated the owner for a while.  
  
“Naturally, I should have known.” Porthos joked. 

He wondered whether it wasn’t awkward to eat at your ex-lover’s place, but Athos ensured him that Aramis still cared greatly about everyone he had been with, he just fell out of love after a while, but either way, a break-up could not stop them from enjoying Anne’s company and her great food.

“It doesn’t matter anyway, she’s married to Jésus now.” Athos had added when Porthos questioned that it might not have been difficult for Aramis, it could have been for Anne.  
“Wait, to Jesus?”   
“Yes, Jésus, you know him?”  
“Who doesn’t?” Porthos had said, thinking to himself that he must have missed something in translation and Athos had used a Chilean expression to tell him that Anne had become a nun.

It was a misunderstanding that wasn’t solved for days until Athos told him that Anne wasn't a nun at all, but that her husband had been nicknamed Jésus. The only saint or deity she dedicated herself to was food. Porthos would have been ashamed of himself it he hadn't found it so funny.  
Athos admitted he had no idea what the husband's real name was, "Louis something" and he could only remember that the man worked in the financial distract.  
  
  
The “small prices,” as Athos phrased it, weren’t the only aspect of Anne’s that attracted such a large clientele, it was her cooking that had made the place so infamous. Whoever tasted her dishes experienced what she had felt while making it.

After she and Aramis had broken up the food had given everyone a bitter aftertaste of sadness and lost love and while she might have lost some, more came to eat the heartbroken food because they recognized themselves in it. 

Lately everyone had left with a new sense of optimism and even Athos admitted he felt different after eating there.   
“It’s probably the excessive amount of oil and cream though,” he added.  
  
There were some visitors who even claimed that if she wanted it Anne’s food would come alive again on their plates.  
“That would be rather inconvenient,” was all she said when asked about it.

\--  
  
The café was already full of people when they arrived, chatting and enjoying their lunch. With difficulty Athos and Porthos worked themselves to the back of the restaurant and settled among the other professors.   
  
Once in a while someone would shout and raise their glass to something and the whole restaurant would join them in applause and agreement, whatever the cause.  
  
Constance walked around the hysteria with calculated moves and greeted them enthusiastically.  
“No time for small talk,” she laughed and disappeared again in the masses.  
She returned not much later with small dishes on multicolored plates, but before Porthos could say something or even thank her, she was gone again, braving the room like a gladiator an arena.

Athos explained that d’Artagnan and Aramis wouldn’t arrive until later, so there was no need for politeness and they didn't have to wait for them.  
In between bites Athos patiently explained the names of the dishes and was as openly influenced by the delicious food as Porthos was, growing more talkative as the meal progressed.

Mid-meal an elegant woman joined their table and introduced herself as Ana María Mauricia.  
Porthos would never have guessed she was the cook and mastermind behind the restaurant, for she appeared to be quite the opposite of what he had imagined her to be.  
He had trouble reading her.  She had a calm and understanding demeanor, but underneath an authoritative confident woman with clear ideas and strict morals rested silently until someone would be foolish enough to wake her.

She looked Porthos straight into his eyes when she shook his hand.  
“And?” was all she said.  
“I have no words,” he answered, entranced by the food.  
“All the words I wanted to hear.”  
She handed him a glass of pisco sour, “Chilean of course, not Peruvian” what ever that might have meant, and smiled curiously.   
  
In the background the shouting and chatter turned to whispers when she spoke.   
She bowed close to him like she was sharing a secret and Porthos could hear her breathing. Athos nodded encouraging with a faint smile on his face.  
"What do you think of the cazuela?"

“It’s delicious, it tastes like...” He pondered for a few seconds. “I don’t know, the warmth spreads through your whole body and you feel well rested and yet you could sleep for an hour.”  
  
“Hmm, so the way you feel like after a good orgasm, no?”  
  
Porthos pretended to be scandalized, but a loud laugh escaped him.  
  
“The secret of this dish is making love the whole day and then wake up around midnight to start your cooking, let it simmer the whole night. Best to do it on a full moon, naturally.” She entrusted in him with a salacious smirk.  
  
“And preferably doing all the cooking naked as well, right?” Porthos winked.  
  
This time Anne laughed. “And lots of garlic and oil of course.” 

She greeted someone else that passed by and she chatted politely, before turning back to Porthos.

“Athos tells me you like food.”  
  
Porthos nodded in affirmation, “especially this kind,” he laughed.  
  
Anne smiled in return and pointed to the kitchen-door. “He told me more. You fear you will have trouble finding a job.”  
  
Porthos nodded slowly, “I-at home.” He took a deep breath. “I might have had some trouble with the police, I mean--”  
  
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Porthos.” Anne said.  
“I believe giving people another chance works better than a lifetime of punishment for a foolish decision you made as a teenager.”  
  
Porthos suspected that Athos had spoken about him to everyone, more than he would probably admit. _The sneaky bastard._  
“I can’t expect someone to ignore it.”  
  
“This is my decision” was all she said. She stood up suddenly, the sound of the chatter rushing back immediately.   
“Very well, I will call you at Treville’s tonight, but right now the kitchen is waiting for me.”   
She kissed him goodbye and disappeared with a chorus of applause and wolf whistles through the restaurant.

Porthos wasn’t sure what his face showed, probably a mix of surprise, gratefulness and incredibility. He looked up to Athos and nodded in thanks.  
Athos moved his hands in the air as to say _it was nothing_ , but Porthos couldn’t quite believe how his solemn friend had gone out to help him yet again. 

\-- 

They had finished eating for quite some time when d’Artagnan and a captivating stranger arrived.  
From the way the man was greeted by almost everyone in the room Porthos was certain it had to be Aramis and he took the opportunity to study the man from afar before he would arrive at their table. 

He hadn’t known what to expect, but Aramis was surprisingly less the magician he had imagined him to be and so much realer than Athos’ stories had suggested. He appeared younger than Porthos, something that caught him by surprise, for he had envisioned a charming, but distinguished older professor.  
The man that slowly approached them had an air of young mischief around him. 

He moved casually, relaxed with confidence yet with a tired pace, a man cursed by permanent insomnia, shaking the hands of people he passed, allowing them to greet him, but returning minimal attention while he worked his way to the back.  
D’Artagnan followed closely, happily arguing for some lost cause while Aramis commented with greatly timed responses, but seemed distracted.  


For some reason Porthos felt nervous, he suddenly wanted Aramis to like him. He feared it would hurt if he disappointed this man, partially because he was Athos’ best friend, but mostly selfishly: he didn’t want to stand out as the only one who Aramis didn’t like.

From up close Porthos could see he had been mistaken about Aramis’ youthfulness, laughter lines were broken by a tired look on his face and gray streaks were appearing in his beard.  
“Alice in today?” was the first thing Aramis said when he reached their table, his voice a low drawl that reminded Porthos of a street performer he had once seen in Paris as a kid. A man with yellow eyes that had spit fire and who’s voice had been blackened by soot.

“She has class all day,” Athos answered, shaking Aramis’ offered hand.  
Porthos stood up quickly and offered his hand as well as a smile. Aramis’ eyes glanced over him and his laid-back stance changed immediately.  
His back straightened as though he was uncomfortable and he had to physically push himself not to show his reaction. 

Aramis smiled back, but his eyes were too large, like a deer caught in headlights, and after some hesitation grabbed Porthos’ hand.  
He shook it and turned it around unconsciously as to study it, holding on a little too long for it to be appropriate and after d’Artagnan coughed carefully he quickly pulled back. He hadn’t realized what he was doing.   


He pulled on his collar and rubbed his neck, a slight blush on his cheeks. "Aramis,” he introduced himself simply.  
His eyes vaguely trailed over Porthos’ face, his body still rigid, then nervously away to something behind him as though to pretend he had lost his interest already.

He and d’Artagnan sat down and Aramis immediately put a cigarette in his mouth.  
He offered the package to the other men and they all accepted gracefully, the air tense with unspoken emotions.  
Aramis adapted a relaxed stance, leg sprawled out before him, but Porthos could see his hands were shaking a little.  
_Perhaps Aramis is just as nervous as I am_ , he thought, but that seemed ridiculous for one so clearly confident of himself and Porthos dismissed the thought.

“We had a long night, four families, we needed you,” Aramis said to Athos after sipping from a glass of wine Constance had brought him.  
He had accepted it with a kiss to her hand and a comment how she grew more beautiful everyday.  
Constance, completely unimpressed, had given him soft slap against his cheek and had called him an idiot before returning to her work.  
  
“You shouldn’t discuss that here, Aramis,” Athos replied.

“Don’t be paranoid, Athos. Chile has been a democracy for almost 40 years, that’s why we can do the work we have taken upon us. Here, I fear nothing.” Aramis said curtly.  
“Hubris will be your downfall one day,” Athos replied.  
It sounded like dismissal or resentment, but Porthos couldn’t be sure. Aramis solely shrugged.  
  
It fell silent again at the table and Porthos shared a glance with d’Artagnan who looked as uncomfortable as he felt.

“So, what do you think of Santiago?” Aramis said while lighting another cigarette, he had already finished his first one. Porthos looked at him blankly until he realized Aramis was talking to him.  
  
“Well, it’s a lot cleaner than Paris.” 

“How funny.” Aramis commented, a frown offered in return for Porthos badly executed joke.  
  
Porthos felt his face heath up and he swallowed, _why the fuck did I say that_. 

He could hear Aramis dismissive response echo in his head _how funny._ Porthos had not wanted it go like this at all and he was almost tempted to add, _sorry, I’m normally not like this, at all actually, people tend to like me,_ but wisely concluded that would only make it worse.  


D’Artagnan awkwardly tried to get a new conversation going about a lecture Aramis had given that morning and Aramis reluctantly explained he was specialized in Latin-American studies, but every time he made eye-contact with Porthos, he swiftly looked away, fumbling with his cigarette.

When Porthos tried to ask Aramis if he wrote himself, he looked at Porthos as though he couldn’t quite believe he just said that, as if he didn’t understand Porthos at all. His expression wasn’t arrogant or dismissive, Porthos suddenly realized, but tired and incredulous. He wasn't sure what it meant.

Porthos could almost imagine that if he knew them all better he would have commented that Aramis should get his shit together, d’Artagnan stop with his nervous babbling and Athos put aside whatever he blamed Aramis for, but he wasn’t really part of their group yet.   
He could see it though, a deja vu, almost touch it, but it was gone when Aramis broke his line of thought by standing up roughly and murmuring something about seeing how Anne was doing before he quickly escaped the heavy atmosphere of their table. 

“Well, that was awkward,” d’Artagnan said and all three of them suddenly laughed loudly.

\--  
  


With great strides Aramis entered the kitchen.

“You didn’t tell me,” he almost shouted to Anne, putting his cigarette out before she chased him away for polluting her work-space.  
  
“Juesú, a little softer please, before the whole café hears about your failure to impress the new guy,” she said without looking up from her work.  
“They already saw your ego crumble and the embarrassment of your uncontrollable nerves.”  
  
Aramis ignored the comment and dropped himself on a chair close to her.  
  
“I just-- I couldn’t get a word out. It was like I was sixteen all over again, come to think of it, it was a fucking miracle I didn’t stammer. ” Aramis moaned.  
“I can’t believe what a fucking idiot I am.” He sighed again, wallowing in self-pity.  
  
“Hey stop that,” he told Anne when she laughed loudly. “It’s not my fault, Athos should have warned me about--”  
  
“--his lovely face?” Anne suggested.  
  
“And shoulders,” Aramis added with a smirk, admitting defeat.  
  
He followed Anne through the backdoor where she picked up a box full of groceries and helped her carry more in.  
“And he was trying to nice to me, Dios mio, what a humiliation,” which only made Anne laugh louder.  
  
\--  


When Aramis returned to their table the two older men were joking about something d’Artagnan had said and he could see his departure had cleared the air.  


“Aah, here he returns, like a beaten dog to its owner with his tail between his legs.” Athos said, interrupting d’Artagnan’s monologue on why Allende’s new wave of nationalizations would actually make things worse.

“You wound me, Athos,” Aramis made a movement like he was grabbing his heart in pain and sat back down on his seat.

He looked at Porthos, his curious stare had the same effect as it had earlier, but the spell of Aramis’ reputation had been broken, making Porthos no longer feel like he had to prove himself.  
  
“I apologize, about earlier. I wasn’t myself really, normally I tend to more...”  
  
“Head first, think later is the description you’re looking for,” d’Artagnan piped in.  
  
“Reckless abandon,” Athos added.

“Don’t get cheeky with me now, have you spoken to Constance at all today?” Aramis told d’Artagnan with a smile.  
  
“A whole paragraph actually,” d’Artagnan said brashly, clearly used to the mockery.  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Aramis laughed and turned back to Porthos.

“You know, I would never have guessed you were French, they are always so reserved,” he tried.  
  
Porthos laughed loudly. “Are you truly going for small talk that starts with insulting my country?”  
  
Aramis couldn’t help but grin at that.  
  
“You know, perhaps you are French after all, it’s considered impolite to refuse to speak a native language when you’re a guest in a country.”  
  
“Well, when the Spanish colonialists arrived here that didn't exactly stop them, did it now?”  
  
“Touché,” Aramis’ Chilean accent strong in his French and a roguish glint appeared in his eyes, perhaps not all was lost.

\--

They spend another two hours in the café before they left. Outside Porthos lightened another cigarette and offered one to Aramis automatically.  
They hadn’t really spoken after Aramis had apologized and Porthos was not even entirely sure for what. At least Aramis’ rigid movements had been replaced by casual laziness and he was leaning against a wall outside the café when handed the lighter back to Porthos.  
  
Athos had departed moments earlier with d’Artagnan in the direction of the university, the two of them continuing the discussion on the socialist policies of the Chilean government and had left the two others to their own device.  


“How did you meet Athos?” Aramis asked, blowing smoke through his nose into the blue sky.  
“He fell drunkenly into the Seine, I jumped after him.” Porthos smiled fondly at the memory.  “And I can’t even swim” he added. 

Aramis looked at him, eyebrows high with surprise. “You are a strange one, monsieur du Vallon.”  
  
Porthos had expected him to ask about the story, but instead Aramis stood up and started walking, leaving Porthos behind.  
When he wasn’t followed, he looked back and gestured with his hand, _come_.  
Porthos caught up swiftly, not asking where they were going. Aramis walked with a confident pace that showed that he knew what he was doing, like he knew these streets better than his own body.  
Even after his return from his short visit to the kitchen, Aramis had been quiet, but he appeared to have left that version of him behind in the café, instead he talked easily about the houses they passed with stories of unfaithful neighbors and their mistresses.  
  
Porthos listened carefully and through Aramis’ eyes he started to see Santiago differently. To Aramis it wasn’t just a city, it was his heart and his life.  
He asked him about it and Aramis had looked at him approvingly, “ New lands you will not find, you will not find other seas.  The city will follow you. You will roam the same streets.” He quoted simply.

It made their walk different than the ones he had enjoyed with Athos, more intimate in a way.  
With Aramis one got the feeling there was an adventure waiting to happen on every street corner, a certain recklessness in every move, even in one as simple as crossing a street. It excited Porthos, jitters in his chest.

Aramis lead him to an old abandoned building that Porthos would never have even noticed if Aramis hadn’t pointed it out and carefully opened the front door with a key.  The villa was silent and Porthos didn’t think anybody still lived here.  
For a moment he entertained the thought that Aramis was going to murder him down here, but the idea was too ridiculous and he laughed loudly.  
The sound was hollow in the open space and it ricocheted against the walls when descended the basement stairs. Aramis looked up to him from down below and smiled in return.

Porthos heard him switch something on and after a few seconds a large pool emerged illuminated by the blue light. It covered almost the entire basement-floor, constructed in a strange eclectic style of Moorish tiles and Greek pillars.

“This is my favorite place in Santiago,” Aramis whispered to prevent let his voice from echoing through the room. “I found it a few years ago, but I wish I knew its story.”

The feeling dawned on Porthos that Aramis had told him something incredibly personal, a secret that he had hidden for a long time.  
He wasn’t sure if Aramis’ intend was to make up for what happened earlier, or if he wanted to show him something personal because he liked Porthos, but he was grateful either way.  
  
He felt the need to share something too, to show Aramis his trust in him was deserved.

“I came here because--” he began, but stopped and started over.  
“I wish I had studied something, like you did, history perhaps, because with no stories of their past, people seize to exist, without history, their humanity is stripped away.”  
He swallowed with difficulty. “I feared it was happening to me.”

Aramis touched his shoulder softly, and suddenly he was too close, leaning in, for something, for a kiss? He didn’t know, but he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t even sure if he wanted it or not.  
All he knew is that he wanted to understand Aramis, to be his friend, to have his trust, to listen to his stories, his anger about the world, about God, to ask why he never became a priest, endless questioned surfaced in his mind when he studied Aramis' face.  
  
_No, that was’t a complete truth_ ,  he wanted to touch him too, kiss him, but it was all too soon and too fast.    
A few hours before Aramis had been so cold to him, hadn’t shown any interest at all and in his doubt and confusion Porthos stepped back and Aramis dropped his hand quickly.  
He smiled apologetically and gestured instead for Porthos to sit down.

Porthos hadn’t noticed how shaky his legs were until dropped himself on the floor and smiled gratefully. He wanted to apologize, but wasn't sure for what.  
He looked curiously at Aramis who had started to strip, without making eye contact with Porthos. His body was tense, but lean and thin, covered in tattoos.  
Porthos felt something warm settle inside him, Aramis was beautiful, shameless with dignity. 

-  
Weeks later after they had lost all their nerves and moved like one body Porthos would ask Aramis what his tattoos meant.  
He would explain that they had been inspired by a character in García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude named José Arcadio who was completely covered in multilingual tattoos telling the stories of what had happened to him.  
Porthos had responded by telling Aramis that it seemed appropriate, since José Arcadio was also the one that was supposed to become the Pope in the book, but had ended fucking donkeys. _Aramis in a nutshell,_ if he said so himself  
Aramis had laughed until tears escaped him. “That’s José Arcadio _the Second_ not the First one, amor!” he had exclaimed at last, as if  Porthos hadn’t purposely confused the two different characters that shared the same name.

-  


But on that cold day in early August Porthos didn’t know the story behind the tattoos, was still too shy to joke privately with Aramis and didn’t have the slightest idea what the man would mean to him.  
Instead he observed Aramis dive elegantly into the water, slicing through it effortlessly.  
The water flowed from his body slowly, like it didn’t want to leave Aramis, but was forced by gravity and Porthos forgot about everything, the questions he had wanted to ask about the knife he found in Bolivia and when they would be leaving, instead he just watched and watched.  
  


\--

_ He should have expected this all along. _

\--

  
Everything reminded him of Aramis, _Aramis, Aramis._ The name had become a prayer for the non-believer.

He walked around in Santiago and lost his sense of time.  
In the days that followed his first encounter with Aramis, only his second day in Santiago --it now seemed a lifetime ago-- he met Athos a couple of times a week, helped Anne in the kitchen and slowly learned the tricks of cooking like she did.  
He saw d’Artagnan occasionally when he visited Constance for his classes, but mostly he wandered. 

He fell in love with the city while he avoided thinking of Aramis.  
They didn’t particularly like each other, but every time he saw somebody walk past him with the same kind of flair Aramis had or when he noticed someone with the same height, hairstyle or dress sense he stopped and looked for a while until he caught himself.

He was so angry with himself, for he knew for sure that Aramis hadn’t given him a second thought.  
  
He desperately tried to forget about the swimming pool and not fantasize about what it could have meant, but somehow during his many walks he ended up in that street, time and again, standing before the old building for minutes, before fleeing in fear of running into Aramis.

He was frustrated with himself as well, to obsess about a man he had only met once, who had been rude to him and then charmed him.  
It made no sense Aramis intrigued him so much.

Sure, he had been very handsome, but most of all there was something intense about him.  
He faced the world without care for appearances, only a crooked smile on his face and honest eyes.  
To Porthos it seemed that Aramis had seen enough to have nothing to hide and that he wasn’t ashamed to let the world know what he was made of.  
Giving his affections openly away and in multitudes. A way of speaking that only people possessed when they had no care whether you would accept their convictions or not. They had accepted themselves and loved anyone unconditionally who welcomed them in their lives.  
  
Porthos wanted that, to be like that, to be loved like that, but mostly he wanted to see if he was right about Aramis, that it wasn’t something he had made up in his daydreams. He was scared mostly.

He saw Aramis a couple of times again, after the failure of their first encounter and the swimming pool, that appeared more and more like a distant dream. A mirage born from a need to be understood.  
Mostly he stayed silent in those encounters, but was sometimes overwhelmed with the urge to touch Aramis‘ shoulders, trail his arms and tattoos and when he noticed he had already reached out, he quickly pulled back, like he had been burned.  
  
_Fuck_ , he was so lost, but Aramis didn’t seem to have noticed, or perhaps he did but was used to the effect he had on everyone.  
“I never wanted to be a priest” Aramis had whispered, voice low and soft, like he only wanted Porthos to hear.  
So he had noticed, but Porthos said nothing in response.

\--

Sometimes Porthos would wake up in the middle of the night, the windows and the door of the hostel flapping, rattling like the untied sails of a ship. He would stay in bed and imagine that if he looked outside he would see that the house had sailed away. Captain Treville bravely at its helm, while the waves would rock him in his bed.  
He slowly convinced himself that if he would look to the side he would see Aramis sitting in the old armchair, reading one of the rainforest treasures and he would smile at him.  
  
“Go back to bed” he would say, _nothing to see here_ , like the Chileans he had met always did when something happened that only Porthos found strange, while they didn’t even notice.  
  
He closed his eyes again, but the sleep that returned felt like drowning, pulling Porthos deeper and deeper to the ocean’s floor.

\--  
  


Porthos had noticed Anne never referred to Aramis with his name. Only called him ‘the professor’ or simply ‘him.’  
When he had first heard her call him ‘the swimmer,’ Porthos had been hurt, but it turned out without reason.  
He quickly realized that Anne had no idea about the abandoned swimming pool and had only given Aramis the nickname because he always smelled like chloride. This knowledge had replaced the jealousy with relief and then shame, none of which Porthos would have admitted.  
  
Porthos was curious about it and had asked Athos. His friend had simply shrugged, “they used to be lovers.”  
And it was noticeable, the two former lovers moved around each other differently, their bodies still remembering intimate moments that their minds refused to acknowledge. Porthos observed them with curiosity.  
  
A week later when Anne and Porthos had been working together on a new recipe in the kitchen she had been telling him a funny anecdote about another impulsive disaster of ‘the professor' and the question had escaped Porthos.  
  
She had smiled like it was the first time anybody had asked --and he wouldn’t be surprised, she was terrifying at times -- and had explained that “a name can be very intimate, once you’ve whispered it when you are most vulnerable, it feels like betrayal to use it commonly.”

  
“So, you and Aramis aren’t still...?” 

“That’s what I like about you Porthos, straight to the point,” Anne had laughed.  
  
“All that chitchat, who’s got time for that?”  
  
“Well, most of us Chileans,” she had joked back. “But to answer your question, no, we have put a stop to all that foolishness. He has become more my confessor than my lover really.”  


“Confessor?”  
  
“I tell him everything.” Anne had explained.  
  
“He told me he never wanted to be a priest.” Porthos wasn’t sure why he had said that, but it was already out now.  
  
“Perhaps we’re just messing with you,” Anne had winked and Porthos was even less sure after that.  
  
She had sighed and shaken her head. “You know, anybody would be lucky to be loved by him. Just make sure he isn’t in love with the idea of being in love.”  
  
Porthos had murmured that it had nothing to with love, but had nodded doubtfully nonetheless. “You don’t care that..?”  
  
“No, not if it makes you happy. Aramis always mentions a part from the bible to explain it, about David and Jonathan, but perhaps you should speak to him about it, he’s been waiting.”

\---

He appreciated Anne's advice, but still refused to seek out Aramis immediately and distracted himself by taking up longer shifts in the kitchen. Another week passed when he returned home from La Reina and decided he had enough of his own bullshit and dialed Aramis’ number.  
He suddenly realized it had to be really early in the morning and almost put down the phone when he heard Aramis answer with a raspy voice, “sí?”  
“It’s Porthos.”  
“Porthos, hello.”  
  
Porthos thought about pretending not to have heard him just to hear him speak his name again, but didn't when he realized with embarrassment his state of mind.  Anne might have claimed he was without nerves and always came straight to the point, but in that moment he hesitated.

He heard Aramis breath calmly, patiently through the phone, like he had all the time in the world to talk with Porthos in the middle of the night.  
“I can’t stop thinking about... about everything really”  
  
He heard Aramis laugh softly, not to mock him, but like he had expected this.  
“Me neither.”  
  
It was silent again.  
  
“So, what do we do now?” Aramis asked and Porthos wished he could see his face, he sounded doubtful, shy even, but Aramis clearly tried to mask it by slurring his words just a little. It made something tighten in Porthos’ low belly.  
  
“Can I come to your lecture, tomorrow?” Porthos asked.  
  
“Yes,” Aramis answered too quickly and took a deep breath. “I would enjoy that.”  
  
They both laughed and the sound broke the tense emotions that had filled their hearts.  
  
“It will be interesting to see your perspective on some of my ideas,” Aramis added.  
  
“You’re sure? I’ve heard that the French are quite the arrogant bastards.”  
  
“You’re not going to shoot me, are you?” Aramis imitated the sounds of the gun perfectly.  
  
“What are you suggesting, monsieur Aramis?” Porthos flirted, unable to resist the urge. Porthos started to understand why everybody was so enamored with this man.  
  
Aramis jokingly asked Porthos about Santiago again, with much more success this time around, and unlike Athos didn’t tell him which neighborhoods not to enter, but instead advised him what he needed to see, the best places to eat, the things he shouldn't miss under any circumstances.  
He spoke with ease and eloquence and Porthos realized Aramis loved Santiago as much as he did, probably more.  
The conversation was fun and comfortable as they argued about the city and its people and time slipped between their fingers like sand.

After two, maybe even three hours Aramis noticed Porthos low baritone had become silent and asleep.  
He felt light, if he wanted he could evaporate or levitate away out of the window into the morning light of dawn and he would have done it perhaps, if Porthos wasn’t visiting him later.  


It was strange, Aramis wasn’t sure what he was feeling and didn’t mind, was contempt to imagine Porthos’ face.  
He smiled and noticed his grin was too broad for his face, less charming, but more honest.  
_Shit_ , Anne had been right. He hated it when she was right, she got so smug.  _Happiness_ , that’s what he was feeling.

-  
His mother had told him that when he had been born she knew he was destined for a life of full luck, but with Marsac, who’s ghost still visited him at night and looked at him with hallow eyes of sorrow, with Richelieu and the church and everything that had happened, he had felt for a long time that it hadn’t been true anymore, that he had lost his gift, his fate.

His mother had sold two years of pure happiness that she had put aside for when things got bad and one of his dad’s best horses for an amulet that would bless the baby with endless luck. Yet Aramis had swallowed it and his mother had cursed heaven and hell.  
  
Everyone had forgotten about the accident, until they slowly started to notice that the child escaped the most miraculous events.  
A fire in his primary school broke out and he had run back in to save the virgin statue that was kept in the chapel and had come out without burns.  
  
Another time he went out sailing with his uncle and they had ended up in a storm. For two weeks they had been lost at sea and everyone in their village had given up hope, until the ship had appeared on the horizon. The only explanation the other sailors gave the villagers for their miraculous return was that ‘it had been Aramis.’  
  
When he reached the tender age of 15 he had often toyed with his luck as all teenagers do, believing nothing could harm him. He had crossed busy streets without looking, petted black cats and had stopped picking up pennies when he saw them, but nothing bad ever happened, he only seemed to gain more and more good fortune.  
  
Most of all people were surprised how well spoken, handsome and charming he was. Nobody could ignore him, people stopped working, dogs stopped barking and even the threes slowly bended towards Aramis when he spoke. Orfeo they called him for a reason.  
  
One might have wondered what exactly ‘luck’ had to do with his looks, but it could easily be explained: his parents were the polar opposites of him and he looked nothing like them, simple brewers and farmers, short and beautiful earthy people, but no demagogues.   
With the self-depreciation of the poor they connected Aramis’ appearance to his luck, for them it was the only explanation.  
Aramis himself had always thought that his mom might have had a lover, besides his dad, who's genes would have been a more realistic explanation for his looks.  
-  
  
After he had barely survived everything that had happened in Guatemala he had been feared he had lost his talent completely, that he had been too cocky and had used it all up.  
In the years following Marsac's death, Aramis would occasionally freeze with fear and question everything, for who was he without his luck?  
He later learned he had been experiencing panic attacks and the after effects of trauma, something that had nothing to do with amulets or superstition.  
Yet he couldn't resist to believe that his luck had finally returned while hearing Porthos breath evenly through the phone.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted them to be human, a little rude and romanticizing too much for their own good and different from their canon-versions, but still recognizable. I figured the three of them have greatly influenced each other in canon and since this story focusses on the beginning of all their relationships they aren't the people yet that they have the potential to be. I really hope that is coming across!
> 
> \--Akhoonaa means 'our brother' in Arabic, since the other two already had Arabic (nick-)names as well, I (uh Aramis) decided that it fitted nicely.  
> \--Queen Anne of Austria was actually baptized as Ana María Mauricia, so that worked out perfectly for me.  
> \--Aramis quotes a part of a poem by Constantine P. Cavafy called 'The City,' oh no, unsubtle foreshadowing.  
> \--I'm not sure if it was clear, but many characters in One Hundred of Solitude share very similar names. Aramis' favorite José Arcadio is covered in multilingual tattoos, but shares his name with another character in the book called José Arcadio the Second. José Arcadio (II) was indeed supposed to become the Pope in the story, but his life takes a turn for the worst and yes, among other things, he has sex with donkeys.  
> \--Aramis' luck was inspired by Dumas' book(s) specifically, where he appears to be extremely lucky (mostly because of his Machiavellian schemes) and I combined it with his occasionally reckless behavior in the series, isn't that swell :3
> 
> I actually first started truly imaging this story after episode 1x09 and Anne's terrible cooking. I figured the musketeers fandom needed a coffee shop AU, but somehow the coffee shop became a Chilean restaurant and thus (of course) Anne its cook.  


	4. A Matter Of Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more Porthos learns about Aramis, the harder it becomes to understand him or his intentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for pretentious monologues to explain a little of the political and social context of the story.  
> And all near the end: mention of alcoholism (could be read as depression), general consumption of alcohol, discussion of attempted murder, child abuse and racism. There is also a description of body horror/blood in the last paragraphs. With all of that mentioned, I promise this chapter is actually kinda fun? I swear.  
> And as always: first part is the flash forward (or present I suppose) of Aramis' story!

“I’m not sure how the story continues,” Aramis suddenly says. He had wanted to put a spell on them, to pretend the world outside had paused, but the early sunrise is already shining through their white curtains and it’s too late-- no, too early? 

He had wanted to touch Porthos in places where his hands couldn’t reach, but perhaps his words could. Except it’s not working out, his story is kinda shit and _how the hell did he fuck this up already?_  
  
“It’s your story, you can do what you like, Aramis.” Porthos lights up another cigarette, his behavior bordering on chain-smoking.  
  
“You seem under the impression that I control these characters! I don’t, they weren’t supposed to do any of this at all,” he exclaims.  
  
Porthos chuckles and pokes Aramis softly between his ribs.“You got a writer’s block mid-sentence.”

“Sure, mock my pain. It’s the arrogance of a writer to believe theirs is a story that has not been written before combined with the destruction of a good idea.”  
  
“I love it when you talk intellectual to me,” Porthos smiles.  
  
“Do you now? Hmm, paradigm,” Aramis stretches the ‘m’ with a low voice, “societal structures, discursive power, oh Foucault what you do to me,” he whispers.  
They both laugh loudly as Aramis continues summing up random academic terms and crawls over Porthos until they’re face to face.  
  
“Feeling hot and bothered already, I hope, because we could go another round, they do say creativity can be stimulated through-”  Aramis has turned to groping Porthos, but Porthos tuts and pushes his fingers against Aramis’ lips.  
  
“As tempting as everything about you is, even indulging my darkest kinks,” another laugh escapes, “it will have to wait until you finish. You don’t even have to tell me all the adventures they had, I just want to know what happens in the end.”  
  
“Only if you guarantee me a nice reward,” he smirked and Porthos softly hit Aramis’ side as a promise for later.  
“Very well then,” Aramis started, “Abdalrahman had overlooked something else, another part of his inevitable doom,” Aramis mused.   
“He had never asked what the Elk’s home was, what his friend al-Dakhil had lost exactly.”

\--  


_What we had was not supposed to exist_.  
Aramis traced the letters that had been carved into the table of the highest row in the lecture hall.   
He wondered who the poetic vandal had been and how many students had touched the words like he did and imagined they were meant for them alone. That their love wasn’t like any others. How many had truly understood the words? _  
Nothing gained by sadly lingering_ and he dismissed his pondering quietly.

He lighted a cigarette slowly and blew the smoke away from the left corner of his mouth. He had the habit of smoking during his lectures and occasionally blew rings and even bird-like creatures into the class room; to the great joy of the girls that were always sitting in the front.

He descended the stairs as the first students entered the hall, their excited chatter followed him.    
The academic year hadn’t started yet, but it was a tradition to continue some classes in the long break. Although these lectures normally weren’t really popular, Aramis had concluded with a certain pride that his were.  
His outspoken political views, sharp mind and witty comments attracted many, a siren song of revolution and charisma few could resist.

D’Artagnan was the first familiar face to enter the lecture-hall. He joyfully waved to Aramis who returned the gesture. If d’Artagnan had been anyone else, he would have turned arrogant and boisterous for knowing Aramis and Athos so well, but the kid was too kind, honest for that. Aramis understood why Athos had taken to him, he had himself and had decided to mentor him by making fun of him at every opportunity. So far it was going quite well.

Porthos followed closely and smiled broadly to him, Aramis bowed lightly in return.   
The man clearly stood out, dressed in a strange combination of Athos’ and Treville’s clothes, there wasn't any doubt that he was a stranger, not a student in any way.  
Weathered by being exposed too long to salty air, he possessed a deceptive calmness over him that could erupt in a seastorm or a hurricane.  
The other students greeted him, as though they knew him. He had seen Porthos have that effect on people before, he fitted everywhere even if he didn’t belong.  
  
Aramis slowly trailed his eyes over the rest of the room. He stood before the crowd and suddenly felt lonely. All these children with their bright naive ideas of the future. Sometimes he wondered whether it was all worth it in the grand scheme of things, could he be selfish while he had a responsibility?  
His eyes flickered back to Porthos.  
He had been able to do it before, not loosing sight of what was necessary, but he feared this time it might be different.   
  
Not that it mattered. Porthos had pulled back every time Aramis had moved closer over the last two weeks and he would never touch someone if they didn’t want to be. The realization of the possibility that Porthos might want to be by his side didn’t come to him until many days later and instead he took a deep breath.  
Teaching is theatre after all.

“Last week someone asked me, what is the use of studying literature or history? Use! The audacity!”  
  
Aramis pretended to spit on the ground, a volley of laughter waved through the hall.

“We live in a capitalist society that only sees value if you are able to contribute something, if there is a direct effect of what you do. If you can’t, you do not count as a citizen, or even as a human being.  
But we are changing this, we have had the first socialist revolution through democracy and no one can take that from us,not even the Americans as they have tried in so many countries in Latin-America. And although between you and me,”Aramis voice softened, “Allende is not exactly my first choice, if you know what I mean,”  
he winked to his audience and again many laughed, “we should be proud of this.”

He walked to the other side of the classroom.  
  
“The use! Ha! There are many ‘uses’ for studying history or literature: to understand the human mind, to not repeat the same actions, to know where you come from, to even change the future! But my dear students, why do we tell stories, why do we search for answers?”  
  
He looked expectantly at the classroom which had fallen silent with attention, “it’s the oldest human trade in the universe: curiosity and imagination.”

“Why do we fantasize so differently here than the rest of the world? Is it because everywhere we look there is terrifying nature, natural disasters, poverty and the remains of colonialism and slavery? Is magic realism escapism? Or is this land fantastical, a combination of catholicism and indigenous cultures and thus our reality?   
We can’t help but see the impossible everywhere and accept it as normal, we can’t help but to imagine the strange and make it our own. It is a matter of perspective...”

“You understand now?” d’Artagnan asked. “He’s a shapeshifter.”  
Porthos nodded, _yes_. It appeared to him that Aramis looked different every time he saw him and before this room of students Aramis was an orator who preached change and fantasy. 

“Let me give you an example. A man in my village would drive his truck to get gas, but he couldn’t turn his car so he drove in large circles around something instead. By the time he had reached the gas station again to return home, his gas had run out. He would refuel again and the event would repeat itself until he accidentally took more gasoline than normally and could make it all the way back to the village.  
Of course by the time he arrived home, he would notice his gas was low and had to return to the gas station, for it to start all over again. This continued for 10 years, he didn’t eat, didn’t sleep just kept driving. Then one day he had enough gas to drive almost the entire way back, but had to stop when some cows crossed the road, they mooed and the car broke down from lack of maintenance. He stepped out, told the farmer his cows had scared the car, cursed him and walked home. From then on he did everything by foot.”

The simplicity of the story did its work and the students were openly entertained.  
  
“It doesn’t matter if it’s true or impossible, it’s the way you look at it and accept it as what happened and that goes for everything in life.”

\--

After speaking for an hour Aramis had left some time for students to ask questions. Once they all had left, Porthos walked down, d'Artagnan following his classmates. He thanked him and told Aramis he had a question himself that Aramis happily indulged, for Porthos wondered why Aramis had become a professor. The way he spoke, it seemed he was meant for something else.  
Aramis answered by vaguely stating that if he had been a priest, he would have wanted to be a soldier, but if he had been a soldier, he would have wanted to be a priest.  
  
“But you are neither,” Porthos said.  
  
“Lo que me gustaría ser a mí si no fuera lo que soy,” he explained and paused for a moment lost in thought.  
“Like always, George Orwell explains it best. He wrote a short essay in which he discusses why he writes and he says that if he had been born in a different time then perhaps he wouldn’t have written so politically, yet he has been forced by the circumstances and so he can’t possible not.” Aramis mused.

“But born, alas, in an evil time,” Porthos quoted and Aramis smirked appreciatively.  
  
“The military and even the police in this part of the world, if not everywhere, are an occupying force, many are corrupt to the bone and I realized I could not join them with a good conscience, but had to turn to something else to protect the people. So I studied to become a priest for a while, but the way the church worked, it wasn’t right either.   
I was young and naive, much like my students, and I tried discussing reform with my colleagues, many of whom I still write, but that too ended badly.  
Eventually I realized I was meant to be here, in Santiago. That's the short version at least.”   
He smiled nonchalantly after that.

“Would ever leave this place?”  
  
“No, I love it too much. I won’t be able to live somewhere else. But what about you, Porthos, what do you want to be?”  
  
Porthos smiled and shrugged. “For now, I only want to find... friends, a chosen family I suppose,” he answered honestly.  
  
 _Dear God, let him stay a little longer_ , Aramis wasn’t sure what he would do if Porthos ran away from Santiago, bored and in search of something else, because how do you tell someone you don’t know where to go except in their direction?  
He didn’t say it aloud, didn’t want to overwhelm the other man and instead he followed Porthos outside, perhaps that would be enough for now.

 --

Porthos got into Aramis’ red citroën 2cv to which Aramis lovingly referred to with ‘la deuche,’ "short for deux-cheveaux."  
“It’s French, like you” he added happily and continued the silly joking during their entire ride.  
  
The roof was open and the cold unforgiving air made Porthos feel like he could breath deeply again and yet he felt restricted.  
  
“The altitude is high here,” Aramis explained. “And higher we are going still! For me this is the closest to heaven one can get before dying.”  
  
Porthos could understand Aramis’ notion.  
He stared up to the blue-clouded sky and occasionally glanced down to the rosary that hang from the rearview-mirror and then to Aramis, who smiled at him every time, pure joy radiating from his face in every detail; the wrinkles around his eyes, the small scar on his cheek and his forehead, a small display of teeth under his mustache. This man was remarkable.  
  
Their drive took them far outside Santiago, through the hills and beyond. They drove by a row of old men working in the field and to his surprise Porthos realized it was actually a line of planted orange threes. Aramis’ look suggested that they might have been men before and he didn't ask about. _It's a matter of perspective_. This land was exceptional.

“I had the intention of inviting you to my lecture,” Aramis started.  
  
“Yeah, but you didn’t,” Porthos smirked.  
  
“You beat me to it!” They both laughed. Aramis decided he liked the sound. 

“I was waiting for the right time, I wanted it to it to be...”  _special, romantic? Fuck he had it bad._ He wasn’t sure, _different than other times_ , so instead he vaguely gestured in the air.  
  
“Well, you were taking too long.”  
  
“That’s why I like you, you take your fate in your own hands, while the rest of us wait.”  
  
“Then you will wait your life away,” Porthos said, regret echoing in his voice. 

They arrived in a small ghost town and the cold breaths that arose from the frozen ground lingered on each other like their sidelong glances had in the car. Porthos didn't even see any stray dogs walking around, the roads uprooted by threes and grass.  
Aramis lead Porthos to one of the few houses that hadn’t collapsed or had been emptied in such a way that only the front and back still stood up.   
Outside a woman was working in her garden and she greeted Aramis with a shout and ran to him for a hug. He followed her into the garden and took her baby in his arms.  
After twirling the child around, affection clear on his face, he introduced the adults to each other.

“Agnes this is Porthos, he’s French,” he added smirkingly, repeating  his earlier words. “Porthos this is Agnes, she’s a fortune teller, I thought you might want to meet her.”  
  
Agnes was lovely, a kind smile and long red hair, a lingering sadness in the way she moved. They followed her into the simple warm house, scarcely furnished in earth colours. She beckoned them to settle down at the wooden table while she put on some water for the maté.  
She spoke in a soft voice to Aramis, smiling to Porthos but not including him. Her words were not meant for his ears. Porthos looked around, trying to understand her situation, what to make of all of it, but mostly trying not to listen in on the two others talking. In the enclosed space he couldn’t help but catch some of it.

“Everything...all right here?” “Yes, no strangers...” “Good, good.” “Athos tells me the house is still not letting you in?” “..I’ve been sleeping at his place mostly.. I think I’m getting on his nerves.”

\-- 

They drank their maté and Agnes asked him about his time in Santiago, where he was from and the conversation was pleasant, if not a bit constrained. Like Porthos Agnes appeared to have no idea what the reason behind their visit was, perhaps used to Aramis' impulsive decisions that had taught her not to ask him for any explanations.  
The conversation changed when Porthos asked if she had always lived in this village and it slowly dawned upon him that Aramis was trying to tell him something.  
They both had laughed quietly.  
  
“You can’t hear it?” Aramis asked.  
  
“No?”  
  
“My accent.” Agnes said. “I’m Brazilian, Spanish isn’t my native language.”  
  
“I’m afraid I can barely understand Spanish as it is, different accents is a whole other level,” he had joked.  
  
“So what are you doing here?” he couldn’t help but wonder, noticing the atmosphere turning heavier immediately.  
  
“I'm an exile," Agnes started, looking at Aramis to see if he had said anything about it before their arrival. He smiled encouragingly. "My husband was murdered and Aramis helped me come here with my son." They had a silent conversation Porthos couldn’t follow.  
Agnes looked frustrated and Aramis full of apologies and regret.  
"I suppose some other time then," he suddenly said brusquely. “You can do your cards while I’ll get some of the stuff I brought you, I'm sure Porthos could use to help figuring out his future.”  
  
Aramis stood up abruptly and thanked Agnes for the maté. Outside he pulled his hand through his hair, frustrated, and lighted a cigarette, it didn't calm him down the way it normally did. He wondered what the fuck he was doing, _again_ , for he knew they could trust Porthos, but he wasn’t sure if Porthos wanted to be involved. It had been selfish, to put them both in this situation and it was not even his secret to tell, not exactly. He should have asked Athos for advice.  
He stayed outside in the freezing air until Agnes called him back, showing she had forgiven him.

\-- 

Their drive back was quiet, although it wasn’t late the morning has been tiresome. Aramis was tempted to ask what Porthos had thought of his lecture or what Agnes saw in her cards, perhaps apologize, but he liked the comfortable silence they had found themselves in.  
It was Porthos who broke it, _of course_ , Aramis thought, he was always more forward. He wanted that, to learn from him.

“What you were telling me earlier, about who and what you are. What you want...you are more than a professor aren’t you?”  
  
Aramis nodded yes. 

“Athos too?" Aramis nodded again and spoke this time, “occasionally, I think he does more out of duty to me than anything else.”   
  
He wanted to tell Porthos, but he couldn’t, it wouldn’t be fair. Porthos didn’t push him, for which he was silently grateful, but the quietness didn’t return.  
  
“And Athos doesn’t like to speak about angels, right?"  
  
He was smart, Aramis realized, connecting things already, but decided to play dumb a little longer. “He doesn’t, no, how come?”

“I almost sold my instrument to one of the homeless angels when I had just arrived.”    
  
“Classic mistake, nomad boy, angels play with their pray like cats, ” Aramis laughed.“But those creatures aren’t angels, you know, don’t believe everything they tell you. Actual angels, imagine that!”

Porthos looked at Aramis as though he wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. “Y’all are fuckin’ with me.” he accused, which only made Aramis laugh louder.

“They’re homeless children, whose parents disappeared or died too soon for their children to be named. That’s why everyone calls them angels. Out of fear probably,” he explained. “Athos shouldn’t feel disgust, he should pity them.”

“But _why_ doesn’t he like them?”  
  
Aramis wasn't sure what to tell him, they were playing an interesting game in which nothing was actually said out loud.  
  
“He was married to one. She went by niña most of her life, but after their marriage everybody started calling her milady, a title, still no first name.”  
  
“They’re not together anymore, are they?”  
  
“Not in the strict sense, but I think he hasn’t let her go, or perhaps she’s still haunting him. We don’t really talk about it, we don’t talk about a lot anymore these days.”  
  
“And Athos never really laughs either.”  
  
“Hmm. He drinks a lot.” _too much,_ they both thought, but by that time they had arrived in Señora Treville’s street and Aramis supposed that was it when Porthos took out a knife and clicked out the blade.  
  
"You going to threaten me and steal my car, Porthos?"  
  
"No need, you would probably give to me if I simply asked."  
  
"Don't get cocky now." Aramis admitted with a grin.

“I wanted to ask you about it, Athos said you might be able to explain me more about it."  
  
Aramis read the detailed engravings and nodded slowly. “Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.”  
  
“That’s the whole verse?” Porthos asked.  
  
“Jésus said it, some believe that instead of accepting the way things were, Jésus was sent to earth to bring social unrest and not peace to stop poverty.”

“Do you? Believe it I mean?”  
  
“Yes,” Aramis admitted.”The church reform I spoke of? It’s the idea that the church should take action against injustice, organize, create unions, even take up arms, perhaps even create soldier-priests so to speak. It was developed in the 50s, but it's only recently gotten a name. A man I know well called Gustavo Gutiérrez calls it Liberation theology.”  
  
Aramis smiled, “it is what I live by. Where did you get it?”

“I found it when I was traveling to Chile.”  
  
“An omen, dear Porthos, take good care of it,” he handed it back, his slow movements showing he didn’t want to part with it.  
  
“Keep it,” Porthos said impulsively.  
  
“I really can’t, it’s yours.”  
  
“No, please, it was obviously meant for you when I found it, I cannot image someone else that who should have it. It’s done its job, it brought me here, to--” _you_ , Porthos swallowed the last word.  
  
Aramis nodded, his face unreadable, resilient perhaps, and took the rosary from his mirror and grabbed both of Porthos’ hands and enclosed them around it.  
“A gift for a gift.” 

\--

It was two days later when Aramis saw Porthos again.   
They had gathered at Anne’s, the restaurant was closed as it always was in the weekends and she had invited them all over. Her small living room was filled with chairs, candles and good food. A smog of smoke hang in the room similar to the way it surrounded the city as well.  
  
The air was buzzing , the company and alcohol had made them all more outgoing, boisterous and they toasted to change, to love, even to Allende. They boasted about their activism, discussed their worries about the tense atmosphere in the government -was Allende right in appointing that new commander-in-chief Pinochet?-- and they laughed a lot, even Athos smiled more than normally.  
Porthos felt like he had fallen into a bizarre post-modernist film and he didn't mind one bit.  
  
Aramis quoted Mariátegui and argued that they had to centralize indigenous rights, but stop romanticizing these diverse groups, while Constance added that women  have been excluded for too long as well and when she damned machismo, they all shouted in agreement and a new discussion started.  
“Black folk as well,” Porthos said and once they toasted, overjoyed with their new political plans. The whole evening continued like this.  
  
The evening was full of life and Porthos started to understand them all better, he fell halfway in love with Constance’s vocality, Athos' sarcastic comments, Aramis' intensity and innuendos, d'Artagnan's passion to fight for what was right and Anne's regal righteousness, to name a few. Outside it was raining and the rhythm of the drops changed on whether the weather agreed with the topic or not.

They ate and danced. Anne played a new LP that Aramis had brought. None of them had ever heard music like this. They danced more and shouted and Aramis had a smirk on his face showing he knew they would love it. The musician sang about injustice, about being black in america, soldiers, poverty, there was even a song about superstition and the tunes replaced the oxygen in their veins and made their bodies thrum.   
“Only a black man could have done this,” Aramis said and they all agree once more. It wasn’t not an evening of dispute.  
  
All of them knew without discussing it that whenever they would hear these songs again, they would think of this evening and the joy they had felt, the power of the people, their revolutionary hope and each other. It might be 50 years from now, but one day they would hear the tune playing an it would hit them all again.

When they discussed the stonewall riots the conversation turned more sour. D’Artagnan argued that it wouldn’t hurt if Santiago copied their Northern neighbors, with “your revolutionary tradition,” but Aramis disagreed and argued that it wouldn't work “for socialist revolutionaries perceive homosexuality as the being equivalent to the bourgeoisie and with emotional degeneration” and none of them said anything when he grabbed a bottle of wine and drank it almost completely empty.  
Some things are better left unsaid.

The conversation flowed, as richly as the wine did, becoming more ridiculous every minute, drunk on each other and the wine.   
Someone quoted Molière, “he’s French,” Aramis had added gleefully Athos commented that none of them “make any sense.” Aramis would quote something else, just to get a rise out of Athos.   
“Oh no, now I’m impressed,” Athos had added sarcastically and so the conversation turned and turned, more vaguely intellectual and pretentious the further along the road. A memory game of who could recite the best.

They would insult each other and Anne told Porthos Aramis was the kind of guy that wrote absolutely incomprehensible opinion pieces to newspapers that “for fuck’s sake even get published.”   
  
When they calmed down again Aramis would get out his guitar and play and play, his fingers working smoothly over the strings. They listened quietly, all laying down on couches or chairs and slowly they had started to sing along, even Porthos could manage the refrain. Anne cried and she had asked Aramis to stop singing that song all the time, but what she meant was _please sing it always.  
_

\--

_What ever happens,_ Aramis thought _, what ever this was, it existed, we existed._

_\--_

 

Aramis has plastered himself against Porthos’ side, almost too warm, but Porthos didn’t want to move away. Athos looked at them with worry and approval.

Porthos could smell the faint chloride, and the secret knowledge of where it came from made the smell sweeter. Aramis white blouse had a deep neck, his collarbones were exposed and _chest hair really shouldn’t be this attractive_. From up close Porthos could study his tattoos and he did it shamelessly.  
He deciphered a cross covering his sternum and among the many writings he noticed the words  _momento mori_ tattooed on his collarbones.

“I had you figured more for a 'carpe diem'-guy,” he commented, his words slurring, perhaps the alcohol was getting to him after all.  
  
“I suppose, but this reminds me to remember everything will end, you will die and you should make your time here on earth worth it, you see?”  
  
“I see. Please, continue?”  
  
“And although I can be rather reckless and impulsive, I have enough self reflection to recognize that," they both laughed, "these words tell me to have faith in God and moreover, present for me the día de los muertos as well. So yeah, here's to _memento mori._ ”  
  
They both drank and Aramis continued talking about his tattoos, his hands moving enthusiastically, which might have distracted Porthos a little bit if not a lot. Aramis had beautiful hands, short nails and small scars. Aramis explained that they had been made by his cat and laughed when Porthos looked like he might have expected something more intriguing, sexier even, not something so... so normal.

In his turn Aramis traced the small scars on Porthos’ arms, the cigarette burns, the cuts. He softly hovered his hand before his face and when Porthos gave him permission his traced the scar on his face too. His finger light, his breath on Porthos' face, it felt like an eternity and it was still too short.   
The rest of the group looked away, it was too private to observe and they were sure the two of them didn't even notice.

“My mom died when I was a kid and nobody knew if she had family.” Porthos explained quietly. Once again he felt overwhelmed with the feeling he could tell Aramis anything, but the need to test him somehow, to see what he was made of, to see if Aramis would stay.  
  
"It was just after the War, you know, people were starving, so I was put into the orphan circulation with the kids that had lost their parents in the fighting, but nobody wanted a black kid. I ended up in Marseilles for a while, other places later. The more I moved the more I was losing myself and when I returned Paris, I had changed completely. I was angry and upset, I refused to talk. The family that took me in was nice and things were going better at first, but it turned out the father was a fucking piece of shit."

Porthos breathed in deeply, it had been a long time since he spoke of this, but now that he had started, he couldn't stop.  
  
"He did all of this," he traced his own scars. "I have them on my back and other places too and one day he tried to beat the living hell out of my foster mom and I.. I just got so angry. I took a knife and I attacked him. I remember feeling his red blood on my hands and finally realizing what family warmth might feel like. “

Aramis wasn’t sure if he wanted to scare him off, to shock him or pity, but the way he had spoken made Aramis feel like he had only wanted him to know not to judge.

“Well, good riddance,” he said, unsure if he should really say that about 10-year old Porthos, but the version that was sitting next to him seemed to appreciate it.

“He didn’t die,” Porthos added, “which was a good thing in the end: I would have been in jail instead of here.”

“We could hunt the bastard down you know, turn rogue, become vigilantes. ‘The sharpshooter and the boxer,’ that’s what they will call us, sort of a 70s bonny & clyde deal.”

“You’re odd, I like you.” Porthos said.  


Aramis wondered what it would take to make Porthos stay, what would make him feel grounded. With the melancholy of a martyr he thought it might be better to keep his distance, a day together didn’t give him any right or...? He really was too drunk for this and his line of thought slipped away, instead he settled against Porthos' side, an arm swooped around his shoulder.

\--

_ (In grey and rainy Paris it seemed all so long ago. Looking back on it Porthos realized that everything in Santiago had felt like mirage or the feeling one gets when you aren't sure whether you dreamed it or if it actually happened:) _

They all left at the same time. Aramis, tipsy, leaning against Porthos and looking up with a crooked grin. Something flickered in his face. Regret and adoration and apologies.  For a few moments Porthos was convinced he was about to be kissed. In front of all their friends. In public.

But he didn’t care this time, he wanted this, he wanted Aramis, something important clawed in his chest, but Aramis pulled back. 

Again. Fucking again.   
  
Hurt flickered over Porthos’ face, hurt that Aramis didn’t notice because he refused to make eye contact. The moment was over.  
“I’m so fucking tired,” Aramis slurred instead and threw his arm over Athos’ shoulders, “let me take you home, lover,” he joked, but his laugh sounded forced, missing the warmth of Porthos' body and he didn't look back once.

_(the memory was vivid, it must have happened, Porthos thought, but Aramis wasn't here anymore to ask him about it. why did he leave?)_

\--

 

He had dropped Athos off and had staggered home when Marsac appeared before him, this time as though the blood was still fresh, dripping from his eyes, nose, mouth. Aramis turned his head aside, not willing to see his horror reflected in his eyes.

“Why do come here, Marsac?” he asked.  
  
But Marsac simply looked at him, the blood changed to tears, streaming to the ground, but never touching it.  
  
“I would beg of you to forgive me, but it wouldn't change anything.” Aramis stepped closer, but Marsac turned away and moved back.  
  
“What have I done to offend God this way,” he shouted after him.  
  
“God has nothing to do with this, Aramis,” Marsac told him looking back over his shoulder.  
  
“Well, he certainly wasn’t looking when they murdered you and the whole company!”  
  
Marsac’s face remained blank. His cold stare settled in Aramis' bones. "That's enough," a different voice said and behind Marsac the City appeared.  
  
“Why can’t you both not leave me alone,” Aramis begged, his voice breaking.  
  
The City shushed him and he greeted her quietly, trying to compose himself.  
  
“I would invite you in, but the house has been locking me out. I presume you’ve been scheming again.”  
  
“It’s her choice, but she’s right, you should leave,” the City told him frankly, no forgiveness, no pity in her voice. She had already accepted what was to come. They walked side by side as Aramis followed her, leaving his street behind.  
  
“I can’t leave you, either of you.” He gestured to Marsac that walked quietly behind them, his appearances changing from the first time they had met, short hair and a grin, to the last time in the woods, long-haired and ripped apart by bullets and bleeding to death.  
  
“I have always favored you, but you must be careful Aramis,” the City said resolutely. “Nothing can really last forever.”  
  
“Except you, Santiago.”  
  
“Not even me.”  
  
The ominous feeling befell him as though he should start running forever and never stop, but he didn't.  
He wasn’t a coward and he would stay he told the City. He could understand her way of living with no alliances, when one's life was so long, but he had dedicated himself to something bigger, even if it was solely cared about his friends in the end.   
He was loyal, he wasn’t a traitor like Judas, he repeated to himself, _I am not a coward, I am not a coward_ to himself again and again and perhaps to Porthos in the hope he would be heard or in the hope he would start believing it himself.

\--

When he returned home he was relieved to see the door had unlocked itself. The house was letting him in after 96 days and the rooms were cold and unlived in. He realized he could make sure his bed was never empty, but it would always be cold if he didn’t risk something.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Lo que me gustaría ser a mí si no fuera lo que soy = What I would like to be if I hadn't been who I am.  
> Originally phrased by César Bruto.
> 
> Story about the man and his car that Aramis spoke of is actually real, I met him, although I never asked him whether he continued driving his car without ever taking a break, a minor detail uhuh.
> 
> You can read George Orwell's short essay 'Why I Write' [here](http://orwell.ru/library/essays/wiw/english/e_wiw), scroll down a little to see the poem that Porthos quoted.
> 
> Gustavo Gutiérrez still lives and I think he and Aramis would have been the best of friends, if you know, Aramis had been real. (and I may or may not have that exact bible verse tattooed somewhere)  
> The musician they listen to is (of course) Stevie Wonder, who became incredibly popular in the 70s.  
> Pinochet was appointed by Allende (!) as Commander-in-Chief of the Army on August 23 1973, but had been General Chief of Staff since the beginning of the year 1972.  
> The song Aramis sings is 'Gracias A La Vida' (Mercedes Sosa version) and my heart breaks every time I hear it, it was an anthem of sorts in that time.  
> By my reckoning, Porthos is around 28 in the story, so 73-28, means he was born in 1945 and so it was the early 50s when he was orphaned, not a good time to grow up in France as a poor young black child at all.
> 
> There are more references, but if I explain them all you will all realize how unoriginal I am. Everything is more fun when you imagine them wearing 70s clothes, right? :))


	5. Pretending he was but a shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos philosophizes and realizes he needs to take matters into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cut this chapter in two, it was turning into a monster I couldn't control anymore. so part 2. should be online rather quickly.
> 
> Warning for emotional and physical abuse with regards to Constance and monsieur Bonacieux as well as some victim blaming. It will definitely return in the next chapter.
> 
> Some of the future already starts to seep through the past as we are catching up to the story, just so you know and are confused about the used times!

He would never tell Aramis, although he has to admit to himself that little seems to hurt him nowadays so it wouldn't matter anyway, but whenever Porthos is reminded of why he loved his life in Santiago --so much more than he likes their life now-- he thinks of Constance.  
Of her long red hair and her broad smiles, her cheeky banter and kindness. 

He tries to recall her face, but the images in his head are continuously shifting, he can never quite succeed in envisioning her exact likeness in his mind.   
He lost the only photo he had of her during the move and doesn’t dare ask Aramis, for he doesn’t want to see the cold hollow eyes that greet him in the morning weep.   
It's the kind of selfishness that rips something apart inside him.

He fondly thinks of how he would follow Constance up to the roof of La Reina after the morning rush had passed. They would silently escape to the open space, leaving the crowded city beneath them and would find themselves in another world for a little while.  
  
Constance had tried to explain that the architecture of the buildings had been designed in such a way that little noise from down below would be heard above and vice versa, but he had just looked her with childish glee and had called it “a fuckin’ miracle.”

She always dared him to look into people’s houses, finding a not-so secret joy in the shameless act. She encouraged him to imagine stories for the people living behind those many windows and closed curtains.   
He would joke that she should have befriended Aramis for such a game, but he always tried nonetheless.  
  
He got better with the weeks passing, but it was Constance who especially excelled at it, her creativity and vulgarity had no boundaries and could have competed with the ancient Greeks.  
She would probably have won.  
She was simultaneously overjoyed and disappointed that he wasn’t embarrassed by any of her fantasies.

He misses her so much. More time passes and he has begun to fear he’s forgetting her face completely, doesn't recall any details anymore and he still doesn’t tell Aramis.  
  
When Porthos mentions Santiago he just looks at him blankly and shrugs.  
He misses the city, but he misses the Aramis of Chile more, he’s not sure he likes this Aramis of France, but feels guilty for even thinking it.  
He should be grateful, he knows that, but he isn't quite sure for what. He's forgetting that too.  
Aramis has never been this much of a stranger to him, even before they were together, they fitted perfectly. 

It’s not like that anymore and he slowly starts to wonder if it ever was.   
If what they had, wasn’t just a fantasy he had created in his own head and now the confrontation with stark reality has made it crumble.  
  
When he tries to describe it to Charon it sounds like a dark fairytale, a  _Capaill Uisce_  that fell in love with a shapeshifter, under the watching eye of exile and revolutions they met ghosts, cities’ souls, angels of death and revenge, fortune tellers-- his voice falters, Paris’ reality isn’t filled with endless possibilities.  
  
It faces its poverty with dark rainy days and stark realism and his memories seem out of place.  
He cries for the first time since they left. 

Charon tries to comfort him by patting him softly on the back, but Porthos stands up abruptly, tears still falling and he frustratingly tries to wipe them away.  
He can’t stand to be touched right now, everything irks him, his skin is too tight, too small and he walks out of the house, hoping he can find some recognition in the city he once loved.

 

* * *

_ Santiago de Chile, Early September 1973 _

By the first day of september the weather was finally getting warmer. The humidity was making everyone slower and the hot air shimmered over the roof-tops.   
Constance sat in her usual seat on the roof and Porthos stood by the edge and looked over the colorful city, deep in thought.  
  
The view made him understand what drove some people to become Gods, the urge to shout over the roofs and hear his own words echo and be accepted as Scripture didn’t humble him, but he wasn’t arrogant enough to give it a try, instead his fear of heights made him stumble back awkwardly.  
He looked around sheepishly as to check if someone had heard his thoughts.  
  
Constance laughed loudly. Her long long colorful skirts fluttered around her like a flock of butterflies, “very Summer of Love-ish” she had proudly commented when he had complimented her.

“Don’t let Aramis hear you, he will fear you are ‘Americanizing,’” Porthos had responded.  
  
“Me da igual, ha! He wishes he could influence my impeccable fashion choices like that. And I’m not the one who cares what Aramis thinks,” Constance had teased him in return.

Her wedding-ring glistered in the sun as she the turned it around. When they had first met he hadn’t realized she was married, the way she and d’Artagnan moved around each other as young lovers, but the real reason he hadn’t figured it out until much later was because nobody spoke of ‘the husband,’ as though the silence could make the man non-existent. 

Yet pretending he was but a shadow didn’t hide the way Constance sometimes flinched when someone shouted too loudly nor the bruises on her arms.   
It made something cold settle inside Porthos and boil at the same time.  
He wasn’t a fool nor blinded by the rosy colored haze that had surrounded his mind since he met Aramis, he knew what was happening all too well, but he wasn’t sure what to do, being the new member of their little gang and was simultaneously frustrated with the way the others were treating the situation.  
_Nobody said anything._

For all their revolutionary ideals and promises to stand up for what was good, they were awfully absent.  
“Privativo,” Anne had called it, explaining with one word that it was none of their business and warning him that if he intervened, it would only embarrass Constance.  
  
_Fuck that_ his initial reaction had been, but since he had found out about her husband, nothing had changed. When he tried to approach her Constance had made it very clear that, like Anne had said, it was none of his business.

He was torn between respecting her wishes and ignoring them, for he knew all too well how abusers manipulate one’s mind and make you feel like it’s your own fault, like you deserve it. Still he felt his words changed very little. She would smile at him, but it was clear she didn’t want to hear it. Listening was one thing, believing was something else entirely.

He had let it be, but like his worry about Athos, he couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t watch them in pain, without doing anything about it.

He had tried to bring it up again this morning, but she had simply shrugged and commented he started to sound like Aramis.   
A comment he had heard before, Athos had noticed it as well, “bad influence” he had called it.  
Porthos admitted he could see it himself, how Aramis was mirrored everywhere in his own thoughts, the issues he discussed and what he started to care about, but her comment had made him realize that Aramis had been trying to change something too.  
He should have known, of course Aramis had.  
  
Now looking over the city he was still thinking about it, how to fix it all, but he couldn’t concentrate, annoyed by the sweat that was dripping down his back and his forehead.  
He dropped himself into the chair next to Constance and took a sip from the bottle of water she offered him.  
  
“Aramis is different around you,” Constance suddenly started.

He looked at her curiously. He wasn't sure was she meant with her comment, fondly thinking of the disaster of their first meeting.

"I assumed my good looks have just continue to cause momentary lacks of confidence," he responded and she laughed.  
  
Since the lecture Aramis had been wonderful really, if not a bit tense. The air prickled around them, that pull toward each other they loved to ignore, but other than that he wasn't acting strangely.  
He gestured in an encouragement to continue.  
  
“Aramis, like so many of us, is a bit fucked up.” Constance started slowly, not beating around the bush.  
“He is who he believes you want him to be. He’s charming, but you never quite see who’s that behind all those layers, behind all those different roles he plays hoping to please you.”

“So he’s guilty of being a people’s pleaser? That isn’t really a rare condition among human beings.” Porthos commented questioningly with a smile.

Constance smiled in return, but her serious expression remained.  
  
“Perhaps he doesn't want us to see what he's really like behind his masks.” 

It reminded Porthos of d’Artagnan comment on Aramis being a shapeshifter. 

”Yet around you, he seems less sure somehow, stumbling over his words or literally his feet." Constance mused."Like you expose him more than he wants, yet he comes back and back, like an addiction.”

Porthos didn’t know what to say to that.  
_Of course_ , of course he had noticed how much time they spent together, but Aramis had sent him so many mixed signals he felt tired of it all, of not knowing.

A voice in the back of his head told him that he himself hadn’t been too clear either, distancing himself a little bit from Aramis whenever he came too close, but he had tried to show him he wasn’t scared anymore of... of whatever they were- no, could be.

Sometimes Porthos noticed glimmers of a lost more naive Aramis, moments of truth, a flash when he looked scared or happy. Who he really was before throwing himself back in whatever lie he was following that day. The man consisted of a broken million pieces strung together in this city.

“You aren’t the first. You did realize this, I hope?”  Constance didn’t sound apologetic.

“I know,” Porthos answered “I mean...”  
Unable to find the right words he moved his hands in the air to encompass everything around them. The pressing air, the university below and and the spicy smell of Anne’s tomales. All what spoke ‘Aramis’ to him. _Christ..._ , somehow he wanted everything to be romantic when it came to Aramis, but he felt awkward just considering it.

He thought about how poets compare people to nature in beautiful metaphors, but he wasn’t a poet, and yet couldn’t help but think that Aramis perhaps wore the face of the city, greeting him on every street corner.   
Sometimes when he walked through Santiago he was convinced he saw Aramis everywhere.  
In this city he was never sure if it was his infatuation or the supernatural that dwelled here.

Porthos' everlasting smile transformed into something more serious.   
  
“It’s Aramis, it wouldn’t be him if he didn’t give way his...affections so openly.” He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to excuse Aramis' behavior.

“Yeah, well, don’t accept anything less than what you deserve, simply because it’s the only thing the coward offers,” Constance said, sinking deeper into her chair as she sipped from her maté. 

“He hasn’t offered me anything.” he admitted glancing to his side, unwilling to make eye-contact with her, fearing what she might she see.  
  
Since their almost-kisses Aramis and he had been pulling back and forth, continuing a circle of moments of intensity and co-existence followed by days of no-eye contact and short sentences. 

“Exactly.”

“Perhaps he’s looking for something more,” Porthos wasn’t sure why he tried to excuse Aramis, but he felt the strong need to defend him from Constance’s judgmental mind.

“And you can give that?” Constance’s tone warned him not to come up with any more excuses for bad behavior.  
  
“Perhaps you should take your own advice, not accept the situation you are in.” Porthos said softly.

She shrugged again, acknowledging but ignoring his comment.

  
“I understand, you know, he’s very handsome.”  
  
They shared a smile “And his got this air around him, very adventurous and...”

“ _Caliente_?” Porthos said, pronouncing the word with the most terrible accent he could manage. 

Porthos laughed and Constance smiled cheekily.  
Sometimes he forgot how nice it was to talk about life and love instead of all the world-changing philosophies they discussed at their meetings at Anne's. The circumstances had forced them quickly to age, forgetting they were still children sometimes.

”I’m not sure whether fear or cowardice has to do with the way he pretends to be someone else.” Porthos softly added, “he always seems to face things head on, with no self-reservation. Perhaps he thinks that who he really is, is not worth out time.”

The thought of Aramis‘ confidence hiding his self-esteem and what it meant for their relationship made him quiet. It explained the pulling back of them together like the eb and flow of the ocean, because whether Aramis was scared or hiding, true intimacy was impossible when he wouldn't show who he was, if he wouldn't become vulnerable for once. 

You had to reveal some of that weird unpleasant fragmented part of you, but when you did the other could truly see who you were and in that moment you had taken the risk to be hurt terribly, misunderstood of rejected by being honest for the first time.  
He wondered if it perhaps said something more about himself than about Aramis. 

\-- 

A slight shiver went through him when he saw Aramis leaning nonchalantly against a three across the street when he left la Reina.  
It had become an unspoken agreement between the two of them for Aramis to pick him up and walk him home. 

Occasionally he went up with Porthos, but except for the not-so-casual touches they shared, they simply talked. Aramis would leave again and the next day they repeated their ritual of unspoken tension and while it had been fun and exciting at first, with the conversation in the back of his head Porthos felt a different kind of nerves.

A wolf-whistle greet him and Aramis slowly walked towards him, casually smoking a cigarette that he threw on the ground when he reached Porthos.

“Porthos!” he exclaimed and hugged the other man tightly as he nuzzled his nose into Porthos’ neck.

“Are you drunk?” Porthos asked, questioning the enthusiasm and smelling Aramis’ breath when the other man pulled away from him, but remained close.  
  
“No, of course not, this is just my shining personality.” Aramis smiled cheekily at him.  
  
“Sure,” Porthos pulled up an eyebrow.

Aramis leaned against him, his arm wrapped around Porthos and smiled up to him with a big grin.  
He noticed his rosary peaking from beneath Porthos’ shirt and touched it softly. Porthos grabbed his hand a little too fast, stopping Aramis from tracing the necklace carefully, and quickly let go again, smiling in apology.   
Aramis looked down, a grim flash of hurt on his face before he composed himself again.

“Whatever blasphemous thoughts, cast them out,” Porthos joked to reassure him, but the look Aramis returned was serious under his drunken smile.  
Porthos squeezed his arm.

“We are friends, are we not?” Aramis suddenly asked him, not bothering asking how Porthos' day had been or other simple pleasantries.

“The best.” Porthos assured him with a shaky smile, thinking of their shared relief of having found someone they could relate to entirely.  
Porthos wasn’t just sure yet if it was solely friendship.  
  
Aramis nodded in thought, but his drunken state made him erratic and  without explaining the origin of his question he tried to saunter away in the direction of señora Treville’s, heavily leaning on Porthos.

“What about I walk you home this time.” Porthos said, smiling faintly.

  
Aramis nodded quietly, but then laughed loudly. “Saint Porthos”, the ‘s’ slurring a little. Aramis kept holding on to his hand as they started walking.

  
“People will see.” Porthos warned, as he stopped Aramis in his tracks, yet didn’t let go.

“It’s three am, no-one who’s awake cares.”Aramis said slowly.

Porthos holt on as a response and Aramis leaned back into him, continue his nuzzling against Porthos’ shoulder.

“What troubles you,” he softly whispered to Porthos. Even in his drunken state he noticed something was off, Porthos felt warm if not for his worries.

“I think we should do something for Constance.” Porthos started, “I just don’t know how. ”

He pulled Aramis closer to him when he stumbled as they crossed the road.

“Violence should be our last resort,” Aramis said pointing his finger to the sky, “but I wager you could put the fear of God in that husband of hers.” 

He snickered, his tone had been serious but the way he said made it clear his mind was all over the place.  
  
“You’re too drunk for this,” Porthos said, feeling disappointed in himself for asking and Aramis for choosing to get drunk on the only evening he wanted to discuss something serious, letting go of his hand.

“No, no, Porthos, I’m not. I mean, I’m drunk, but..” Aramis said, grabbing for the other man’s hand.  
  
“Tomorrow. Tt-tomorrow we come up with a plan, yes?” his words followed each other too quickly, sticking together.

“Please...” Aramis said, neither of them entirely sure what he was asking as he enclosed Porthos’ face with his two hands and softly caressed the sides of his face.

“Why are you drunk?” Porthos asked, pulling Aramis’ hands from his face, but keeping one of them tightly in his left hand.

“Don’t know, got an idea, got scared, needed courage, the usual.’ Aramis replied brusquely. "Now it’s my turn to ask a question again," he stated, returning to his strange optimistic state of before.  
  
“If we’re doing the honest question game again, that’s cheating.” Porthos laughed.

Porthos looked up for the moment to the dark sky, sometimes he was disappointed that the smog hid the stars and often even the moon.  
Perhaps he was becoming more religious, but somehow he felt that people lost their touch with God when they were unable to see the heavens, looking up to an empty sky they had created themselves.

Aramis had told him that falling stars were cigarette-buts Angels threw away when God approached, trying to hide they had been smoking, but he liked to imagine it was the stars diving into the deep black unknown of space, with the same grace Aramis had had that night in he swimming pool.

“What did Agnes see in her cards, Porthos?” Aramis tried to hide his anxiety with a broad smile.

“That I would meet a dark tall handsome stranger,” Porthos joked, suddenly realizing Aramis had been holding on to his worry and that the alcohol had finally given him the courage to ask it. Perhaps that was the true explanation behind his drunken state.

“That sounds like a description of you, Porthos,” Aramis smiled, genuinely this time.

Porthos thought for a moment, considering Aramis question, he hadn’t given Agnes’ words much thought.  
Sure, there were many unexplainable things in life, but to base your future on some cards you randomly took from a pack, that went a little too far for him.  
He was interested, but approached everything with the cynicism of someone who’s grown up with conmen and thieves.

He shrugged and put his hands in his pockets, letting go of Aramis hand, and glanced at their shoes to avoid making eye-contact, to pretend he was hesitant about the secrets he was about to spill.  
The other man bowed closer to him, linking their arms as to encourage him to continue. Porthos smiled cheekily, still facing the ground.

“Porthos?”  
  
This time Porthos looked up and smiled faintly, taunting Aramis a little.  
Aramis’ eager expression looked back at him and a barking laugh escaped Porthos, maybe he was becoming a little drunk as well, on what, he wasn’t sure, he refused to think of the cliché that it was Aramis who was so intoxicating.  
  
Aramis’ expression turned from interest to miscomprehension, but the broad smile remained on his face and Porthos decided that he had teased him enough, especially since Aramis was too drunk to understand Porthos was toying with him.  
  
“I took three cards.” His voice turned softer and he continued whispering into Aramis‘ ear who leaned even closer to him.  
  
“The first was the wheel of fortune. Agnes said it was an omen, either good or bad, she did not know, but it meant that my life is at a changin’ point. A moment in history that would influence the rest of my life, tied to what what will happen and who I will meet.”   
  
Porthos shrugged, he could have guessed that without a card.

“The second card was the lovers card, telling me that this change is tied by desire and the need for connection or love.”   
He winked at Aramis who listened attentively, taking it far more serious than Porthos had done and thus missing the innuendo.  
He heavily leaned on Porthos needing the support to continue walking.  
  
“And the last one was death. I remember Agnes was rather shocked to see that one. Not sure if she actually told me the truth, or at least, what she believed she saw. Eventually she told that it meant rebirth influenced by this ‘change.’”  
  
Porthos paused, thinking if he remembered everything.  
  
“She told me to have faith, but that fate would force me from this place again. Tides are changing, for me, for you, for everybody etcetera etcetera, you know.”  
He added at last, the memory made him appreciate Agnes’ horoscope vagueness that made sure you could apply these ‘predictions’ to anyone and any place.

“I think we are both too stubborn to let fate separate us,” Aramis concluded almost childlike happiness, satisfied with Porthos’ answer.

“True, you are a stubborn fuck,” Porthos said jokingly.  
  
 “It’s my only character flaw,” Aramis responded with the same quiet joy.

They had reached Aramis’ street and smiled in silence for a while.  
The city was never entirely quiet, somewhere not far from them a couple was fighting and barking dogs could be heard nearby. Porthos enjoyed the sounds, it reminded him that life around him was always continuing and he was but a small part of it.  
  
“Please don’t leave me,” Aramis suddenly whispered, his drunkenness making him once again too honest.

Porthos returned his glance , studying the wide and sad eyes. Porthos squeezed Aramis' hand again.

“I will stay as long as you’ll have me.”

More confessions were on the tip of his tongue, to ask Aramis about what they were doing, but his line of thought was broken when Aramis took out his keys and turned away from him to the door. 

Porthos was becoming increasingly frustrated, Aramis started these intense moments, but didn't follow through, _fucking again and again_.   
As Aramis struggled with his keys Porthos couldn’t help but imagine throwing Aramis against the wall and pushing him back, pushing his thigh between Aramis’ legs and kiss him.  
Actually kiss him.  
He wasn’t sure how exactly he would do it, but it was all he could think about and he hated himself for not having the guts to actually do it.

Instead he took the keys from Aramis’ fumbling hands and opened the door for him.   
In the tiny hall he pulled off Aramis’ jacket, who sleepily let him, and helped him up the stairs to his tiny apartment with soft encouraging words.  
  
Porthos followed Aramis in his bedroom and dropped himself in the large leather chair in the corner, gazing at Aramis who clumsily undressed himself.

“We’re still playin’ that honest game of yours?”  
  
He settled deeper into the chair, refusing to think what he would ask Aramis if he had the chance. Aramis smiled drunkenly at him, ignored his question and he dropped himself on his bed.

“I’m leaving in a couple of days again.” Aramis crawled slowly underneath the blanket, struggling with it but winning as he sighed deeply. “I’ll be back soon, so don’t worry too much, darling,” he added softly, almost whispering it to himself as he immediately fell asleep. Tired beyond comprehension for carrying the fate of so many on his back.

“You ask the impossible, you idiot.” Porthos answered even though Aramis' wouldn't hear him. He stood up slowly and pulled the blanket higher so it covered Aramis’ entire body.  
  
“I only think of you these days, don’t you know that?”  
Porthos softly touched Aramis’ hair before he left the room, studying his lovely face. He always looked much younger in these moments, for a little while the burden of the world forgotten. Porthos pulled his hand back softly and left Aramis without looking back.

\--

 

Aramis’ so called ‘business’ had him disappear for two days before he returned to the restaurant, looking even more tired than he usually did.   
Dark circles had formed around his eyes and they had lost their usual spark.

His unruly curls were standing in every direction, he clearly hadn’t brushed it since his departure and it reminded Porthos fondly how often Aramis fell into the cliché of the mad professor as they hugged tightly.  
  
The everlasting smell of chloride had been replaced with dust.

A gorgeous woman followed him closely, her stylish heels clicking on the tile floor of the café as she made quite an entrance with her long black hair swooping around her.   
She introduced herself to Porthos with “Alice, a colleague of these two losers,” pointing at Aramis and Athos who both smiled sheepishly in response. 

Porthos had no doubt left that whatever his two friends were up to in their free wasn’t a simple interest or hobby, but it instead appeared to him as a well oiled organization that was in someway related to the university.

But he had learned to keep his thoughts for himself and he shook her offered hand. He entrusted in her that that “must make me a loser as well,” since “these two” were his best mates. She had laughed loudly and had offered him a seat next to her.  
He had glanced at Aramis, to see if they would sit together, but the other man was busy talking to Anne and so he had accepted the chair.  

They had hit it off immediately, her forwardness and intelligence appealed to him and for once he didn’t glance back to Aramis every few minutes. Perhaps every ten minutes, he wasn’t perfect.  
When he did she looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and pity, not so different from the look Constance often gave him. He smiled back and shrugged.

It was clear everyone was relieved Alice and Aramis had returned unharmed and the conversations turned to politics soon enough. The illusion that nothing had changed came over them and none of them questioned it.  
  
Constance had served them food and stayed with them until she was called away again. It was quiet for once at their table, all enjoying the _chacareros_ she had served them and remembering their manners for once by not talking with a mouth full of food.  
"Get the cook, get the cook!" Aramis had joked and Anne had reluctantly appeared.  
  
"You wonderful woman," he had exclaimed, "you have outdone yourself, this is a meal worthy of God," as he described the simple sandwiches.  
  
"And you have been starving, you would eat toast and praise it more than your God," Anne had joked while softly squeezing his shoulder with affection.  "And it's not me who made these, thank your _novio_ for it."  
  
Aramis had looked at Porthos with a newfound awe as he continued stuffing his mouth, the shyness appeared again for a moment before it was replaced with a mask of cockiness.  
  
"You are a genius, Porthos, what do you say: I will put on a dress and we'll be able to get married before next mass, _vale_?" he asked Porthos who had nodded his head in disbelief.  
  
"People, I'm engaged!" Aramis had stood up without much grace, chair shrieking over the floor, and the whole restaurant had laughed at him, shouting congratulations.  
  
“Took you long enough!” a voice said from the other side of the café. Aramis had winked extravagantly to Porthos.

They had continued eating and d’Artagnan had tried to provoke Aramis into a debate by criticizing Allende’s new wave of nationalizations and wondering why Aramis could call himself a social democrat when he distrusted the state so much, “yet your ideology wants the state to control everything!” 

Porthos hadn’t followed the news lately, busy with his work and his worries, and wasn’t sure what d’Artagnan referred to. Still he loved hearing Aramis eloquently debate d’Artagnan’s point of view and tease the younger boy.  
They were both sorely disappointed when Aramis simply yawned and dismissively told d’Artagnan there was still much he needed to learn.

Aramis continued nodding off --something Porthos might have described to himself as rather cute, he would deny everything-- but when Aramis almost fell of his chair, lost in a trance of tiredness, Athos picked him up and maneuvered him out of the café.  
  
They all followed them outside, throwing bills on the table, promising multiple times to Anne they would come to a salsabar tonight to celebrate after everyone had rested. Satisfied she shooed them away with some motherly bickering before returning to her kitchen, linking arms with Constance.

Porthos had followed Alice in their sudden departure from La Reina and had continued talking to her, but she had excused herself as well after it became clear she couldn't stop yawning either.

“Looking forward to seeing you again tonight, Porthos.” Alice told him and he agreed distractedly with a nod, searching for Aramis without luck.  
He and Athos had already taken their leave without saying goodbye.  
When he turned back to Alice he saw she had already started walking. With a pang of guilt he quickly caught up to her and excused himself.

“I understand,” she said, “you are very lucky, even if love makes us forget our manners.” He had sputtered in protest, but agreed that he deserved it. She smiled to him and kissed him gracefully on his left cheek, before he turned back in the direction of señora Treville’s.

\---

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They go dancing next chapter, whatever will happen then...
> 
> So I have been working on this particular chapter for weeks, I had it finished quite quickly, but I lost the voice of the story and felt the need to rewrite it entirely, but didn't know how. (still not very sure)  
> Since you've been waiting for a while now I decided to upload part 1. of it (even though all the 'actual stuff' happens in part 2.). apologies readers, I hope the wait will be worth it in the end.
> 
>  
> 
> I love the glimpses of Porthos/Constance friendship we've had so far in the show, really wanted to elaborate on that.
> 
> \--Capaill Uisce, Celtic mythological creature of a water horse, in some stories the murderous animal that lives in the sea can turn into a man that smells of fish and salt, much like a selkie. shhh, I won't tell you more about them (but feel free to google)
> 
> \--I used just the standard deck of tarot-cards for the fortune-telling, not very original, but effective.


	6. How cruel to love something you despise so much.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are finally resolved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2 of chapter 5, finally! I just hadn't anticipated it becoming this long.  
> I hope the wait was worth it!  
> There are some perspective-changes near the end, I hope that is all clear. There's a possibility of typos, I edited the last part rather hastily, so my apologies if any occur! :)

Porthos could feel his heart beat against his ribs, the steady rhythm in his throat. The feeling wasn’t very different from drowning.   
_Putain_ , how he hated it. There was never enough air, a faint headache reminding him of-- _please_. _Stop_.  
If only he could forget what had happened.

 _Stop thinking about it,_ he told himself, _what was in the past, was the past._ So why was he remembering now?  
  
He had concluded that the moments before doing something reckless were far more terrifying than the actual event and Porthos’ decision had had weeks to built up, nerves becoming a constant underlaying state of mind.  
  
He wasn’t even sure what it was, but it was something, that much he could see and only Aramis could give him an answer tonight.  
Whether it was the one he longed for or not. What he perhaps feared even more so was that Aramis would tell him what he wanted to hear instead of the truth. Either way, he wasn’t sure if he could deal with any more vague implementations or cloaked truth.  
  
Something was coming to an end.

Normally he would have run by now, start again, try something different, for it wasn’t fear that drove him after all, it was boredom-- right? _Right_?  
He knew how this normally went, he would grow tired of habits and the permanence of everyday life and then after a few weeks, sometimes months, there would come a moment when he felt a sudden need to leave.  
  
Perhaps that moment had come again; for how he missed the sea as he had found himself in this valley, closed in by mountains.  
_How cruel to love something you despise so much._  
  
Although the city was large, it had begun to feel too small and something he couldn’t name was crawling beneath his skin.  Not enough space, not enough air, perhaps it wasn’t drowning after all, but it was suffocation he felt, not sure of the difference. 

Porthos looked through the window to city before him.  
_Always looking forward_ , he mused, but towards what if not a home. What was he searching for?  
  
He didn’t want to think about it, it was easier just to leave, then he wouldn’t have to care who he would hurt if he left, he wouldn’t have to see the ruins he left behind. He felt a sting of shame for the heartlessness in feeling so apathetic, but he didn’t care, _he didn’t care_.  
It had become a mantra, everything was a mantra in this city. _  
  
I don’t care, I’m not scared, I’m okay.  
  
_ Repeat it enough and you will start to believe it. _  
  
_ Perhaps he did feel something, a little bit... maybe. That was normal, he assured himself, he had had that before, with Flea once.  
He had forgotten about her and he could forget again, absence makes the heart grow fonder-- wait, no, shit, _out of sight, out of mind_ , that was the expression he was looking for.  
  
Was it a freudian slip when it’s all in your own mind? Porthos wasn’t sure.

 _Fuck it, fuck Aramis and fuck this city.  
_ The words sounded repetitive in his head, yet another mantra.  
  
He opened the window to let in some of the air, but the smell of rotting trash and cars came drifting in immediately and he shut it quickly again.  
He looked over his few possessions and for a moment he was tempted to throw it all in his backpack, but his line of thought was broken when he heard señor Treville drop something downstairs.  
  
The old captain was humming a Chilean folk-song or perhaps it was one of those socialist ones. 'Unite compañeros' or whatever the song had been called that Aramis had tried to teach him the week before.  
If he listened carefully he could hear quiet echos of footsteps and slowly Treville’s presence made him feel grounded again.  
  
If he left, Treville would be all alone again, solely the quiet ghosts of previous tenants to accompany him, that was reason enough to stay a little longer. _Surely_ it would break the older man’s heart if he left.  
Porthos didn’t think of the real reason he wanted to stay.

He dropped himself on the bed, still feeling unnerved, irritated by everything, his own body too small.   
He tried to focus on his hands, but even then the stream of thoughts continued. They had always appeared too large to him, too rough but not clumsy, and yet since he was a child he had felt that when he touched beautiful things he would fumble with it and break it in the end.  
  
Flea had always wondered how someone like him could be so lithe, with the _souplesse_ of a dancer, but have the hands of a street fighter.  
  
Aramis’ hands were so different, long elegant fingers and steady, like a sniper’s or an artist’s.  
He seemed to like Porthos’ hands though, always holding them, intertwining their fingers, pressing soft kisses to them without him noticing, snippets of time when Porthos didn’t feel clumsy at all.

_Goddamnit,_ he was thinking of Aramis again. He could actually see Aramis looking a bit smug, if he knew, that head tilt of his and half-smile.

Porthos stood up abruptly and paced the two meters from the bed to the book-covered wall. He stared at the covers and vaguely remembered that when he had just arrived he had the intention to read them all, every night a few chapters until he had finished each one of them and he would actually see the wall.   
_Had it only been month?_  
  
He didn’t know what came over him, but he started to remove the books in front of him, putting them on the ground behind him.  
He piled them up until they formed a tiny labyrinth on the floor to his bed and the wall slowly started to appear. He found that the work emptied his mind and distracted him at last.  
  
After ten minutes he looked up again and saw that behind the books a long mirror had appeared.  
It had a simple design with no frame. The wooden bookshelves crossed it in three different places.  
He stepped closer and studied himself. The mirror was covered in dust and little parts were broken off. He wasn’t sure he recognized the man that returned his gaze.  
  
His hair was longer, curls more outspoken and his face was worn, in a good way; from laughter and hard work.  
He appeared broader as well, his skin darker from long days in the sun and trips in the countryside, but what truly made him so unrecognizable was that there was no trace of the doubt he had always carried.  
  
He didn’t understand how, because he felt unsure of everything, but the man that returned his glance looked happy.  
_Properly happy.  
_

The lingering sadness, lack of understanding who he was, his loneliness, it had disappeared, the face that looked back was somebody he had never expected to see. It was a promise, _stay_ , the man seemed to tell him, _and this was what you can become_.  
  
He stepped closer and although he frowned his reflection kept on smiling, head hanging a little bit like he was joking with himself.  
Porthos touched the mirror impulsively and noticed it wiggled a little bit. A sudden conviction overwhelmed him, _there was something behind it_.  
No way he could find out though, as long as the shelves were blocking its movement.

A lost cause before he had tempted it and forgotten once more when he heard a shout in the room next to him.   
He wasn’t sure if it was woman or a man, but it sounded like someone in pain.  
  
He left the mirror be, watching it from the corner of his eye, before he stalked out of his bedroom and opened the door of the room next to him.  
Yet when he looked inside no-one was there, the room was completely empty like it always had been, dust wasn’t even gathering in the corners.

He backed out slowly, still unsure of what had just occurred. A cold freeze climbed up his back and he shivered.  
The need to ensure he was still in Santiago, in this reality, made him shout out Treville’s name. It came out embarrassingly desperate.  
  
“Yes?” he heard in answer, yet the answer couldn't reassure him, the eery feeling the house gave him overwhelmed him again. He adored this house, the smell of wood and salt, but sometimes it really creeped him out.  
He didn’t dare turn around again.  
  
Only seconds later Treville said something again, the low hum of his voice telling Porthos that someone was there for him. He looked down the stairs, expecting for a moment to see his mother, but instead saw Alice looking up to him. The light from the front door shined around her like a halo.  
  
“Anne send me to pick you up, but it seems you were otherwise engaged?” She smiled cheekily at him.

“I don’t know what you are suggesting here, but I deny everything,” he replied, trying to make it sound happily, but his voice sounded small in his own ears.   
  
Nevertheless, she didn’t seem to notice and gestured him to come down. He excused himself to grab his jacket before following her outside again, forcing himself to forget the mirror and his troubling memories. 

 

\---

  
Porthos was rubbing his sweaty hands on his darks pants and checked his hair one more time in the reflecting glass of a shop-window before he walked over to Anne and Alice.

Both women were smoking cigarettes outside the chosen salsa-bar, talking softly to each other.  The place was adeptly named ‘el matador’ and was located in a relatively new part of town.

From a distance he had studied its clientele and had concluded that people of all ages were entering and leaving the bar.  
Everyone, except students. Porthos was sure that wasn’t a coincidence, for now the professors of their little gang had no restrictions nor dread for the embarrassment of facing their students the next day after a wild night of dancing.

The bar was crowded and many were drinking on the steps outside. Porthos was amused how people’s lives took place on the streets here.  
It reminded him of the cities he had visited in southern Spain, no one was ever inside, like they were in Paris.  
   
He followed the two women inside, pleasantly surprised to hear the live-music. The dim-lighted room showed dancers move closely to one another, going up and down on the rhythm of the music like a wave.  
He could hear vague chatter from the left side, where people had gathered around the bar, drinking and talking and admiring the bodies before them.  
  
Porthos felt excited, if not a bit worried about having little knowledge of how to dance like the people in front of him, but Anne ensured him that it was only “a feeling you need to have” as though that made him any more sure of himself.  
  
She was right, of course, and after she showed him a few steps he was moving easily with the crowd. It didn’t take long for him to relax.  
  
“Alcohol makes it easier as well,” Alice said when she cut in and Anne stepped aside laughing, moving back to the side, in search of Aramis.  
  
They danced for a little while and he downed his drink as only sailors could, proud of himself that he didn’t cough. He felt lightheaded and his earlier tensions left his body completely the longer the evening continued.  
  
He liked Alice a lot, she was forward and funny. She tried to show him other moves, laughed at him for failing to imitate her properly and they spoke, although with difficulty. The music too loud to properly hear each other. He learned she was a biology professor and wasn’t Chilean in origin, but Bolivian.  
  
“Exile,” she explained.  
  
Exile, _another exile_ , a continuos theme in his encounters with Aramis’ friends it appeared, if not Aramis himself.  
  
But his thoughts felt slippery and the air was too warm for worried musings as he downed another drink.  
When he started to explain his situation that he shortly described as “a Parisian apprentice of Anne’s” she told him that Aramis hadn’t shut up about him for days and that she knew everything about him.  
  
That had made him stop moving for a second and she had laughed loudly again, either from his expression or how he stumbled against the rest of the crowd that continued dancing. He didn’t mind.  
  
She had grabbed his hand and led him to the bar and ordered them two shots, “for courage,” she added smirkingly.  
He raised his eyebrows in question and she nodded to her left.  
He looked and saw Aramis leaning against a wall with as much faux-nonchalance as he could manage.  
She pushed him in Aramis’ direction with another one of her smirks.  
  
“You don’t want to dance anymore?” Porthos asked, turning back to her, stretching time to quickly think of what he was going to say to Aramis.  
  
As much as he wanted to be close to the other man, he really enjoyed her company, but most of all he wasn’t sure if he was ready to face whatever Aramis _clearly_ had planned.  
  
“No, next time!” she shouted over the music, “if he gets any more jealous he will explode,” she added and had turned to another man at the bar who offered her a dance before he could try to argue with her.

Porthos felt as though he had ended up in one of those _telenovela’s_ Anne loved so much that were always on in the café, --something he didn’t understand about Chileans at all, having a television broadcast everything 24/24 in a restaurant, but never mind that-- the way he was slowly making his way towards Aramis who was approaching him in the same clichéd slow-motion.

Aramis grabbed his hand in a similar manner of when he picked up Porthos after his shifts and put his finger softly against Porthos’ lips to urge him not to say a word.  
The broad smile on his face spoke volumes, but the way he moved told Porthos he wasn’t completely drunk, just high on adrenaline.  
  
A new song started, the rhythm more upbeat and they looked at each other in trance. The shadows gave Porthos the impression that nobody could possibility see them. It gave him the feeling of absolute freedom, as though they could do anything they wanted, there was nothing to fear for those hiding in the dark.  
  
Even Aramis was acting like he could relax for the first time in days, his shoulders no longer high on tension, yet he coached Porthos to follow him, to the dance-floor, away from hiding and into the open, using the excuse of the crowd to move closely against him.  
  
Still no words were exchanged except for small smiles and eye-contact that went on too long. Porthos felt hazy and he wasn’t sure if he knew how to form words if it had been asked of him.  
  
He was most definitely drunk he realized, he felt light and his movements fluid, easy, lost in the best way possible while Aramis continued to teasingly brush against him, standing a little too close for it to be completely platonic as they slowly started dancing.  
They moved up and down along the music, _close, too close,_ with the crowd pushing them even closer more so.  
  
If Porthos had felt like drowning this afternoon, now he welcomed the lack of air in the crowded room. His breath hitching in his throat as the continued their dance.  
  
_No, nothing platonic about this at all,_ he thought briefly before the sinful movements Aramis was making with his hips distracted him and Porthos felt giddy.  
This was what he had been longing for.  
They moved in sync, slower than the rhythm of the music, sweat dripping down their backs, and Aramis’ worn face was showing a combination of joy and flirting, his dark eyes staring intensely into Porthos’, ignoring everyone around them, while everyone’s eyes were on them, no-- _on Aramis_.  
  
As always, people were orbiting around him, shifting their movements in his direction unconsciously as though they had no control when Aramis entered a room, but right now Porthos didn’t care, because even if people’s eyes were always tracing Aramis, he was the one Aramis was looking at _now._   _All the time_ lately.  
  
The only one Aramis wanted to see himself.  
  
It suddenly hit him. He had missed Aramis so much during his absence of the last few days, Aramis made him feel alive, made him care and he didn't want to be without that again, but the other man’s breath on his neck and the alcohol in his blood distracted him from further thoughts and he laughed loudly without restriction.  
The dark room around them, the thrum of the music and Aramis undivided attention filled him with pure joy.  
  
“I almost died, you know.” Aramis murmured softly.  
  
_Well, that did explain the proposal of earlier,_ Porthos thought. A whiplash of impulsivity of spending two days in fear.  
  
“I’ve been seeing so many ghosts, everywhere,” Aramis whispered into his ear, probably using it as an excuse to shift closer, putting his hands on Porthos’ shoulders, their chests almost touching.  
  
“That’s why I hate that house of yours, I thought it might be my time, for if anyone could be an angel of death it’s Athos ex-wife really,” he murmured incoherently. “Almost afraid she had chosen to haunt me instead of Athos.”  
  
He laughed, clearly an inside joke and Porthos loved it. Aramis was being honest and he was so warm as he carefully moved his arms around Aramis‘ back. Aramis immediately leaned into Porthos, wrapping his own arms around Porthos' neck.  
   
“But I got you, you bring me luck,” Aramis continued, putting his chin on Porthos’ shoulder, “that’s why you can’t leave.”

“I won’t,” Porthos murmured, “don’t break my promises remember?”  
  
Not sure what he was promising Aramis, never sure of anything they spoke of.  
  
With Aramis it was like they were having two conversations at the same time.  
Underneath the words outspoken there was a sense of different meanings, different messages.  
  
Porthos lost himself in the music again as they moved faster, hips almost touching, going lower through their knees and moving up again with the crowd. Sweat was dripping down Porthos’ face and he could see it on Aramis’ forehead as well. He felt broad in Porthos arms and Porthos couldn’t help but move his hands up and down Aramis’ back.  
  
Aramis looked back at him with a burning in his eyes and his threw head back to expose his neck. Porthos shivered and let out a groan.  
He could vaguely see more of Aramis’ tattoos exposed, beside the memento mori, he deciphered small birds and praying hands, almost moving on Aramis’ skin. Porthos wanted to study them all.  
  
He let Aramis go a little, moving his hands to Aramis’ hips, swaying him lower, before pulling him back up as he had seen the men do with the women.  
The thought made him freeze suddenly and he looked around; he had completely forgotten about the people around them and he felt the sweat on his back become cold as he franticly tried to make sure nobody had been offended by them.  
  
“Nobody cares,” Aramis said, forcing Porthos to look at him by putting his hands on his face. “That’s why we came here,” he laughed, smiling about the clear shock on Porthos’ face.  
“Athos,” he added in explanation.  
  
Porthos briefly wondered where Athos was, but Aramis’ arms encircled back around him and once more he was distracted by the other man, his smell, his smile, his hard body. They danced as one.  
He felt Aramis scrap his nails against his neck and his right hand moved slowly down Porthos' body as he trailed his hand under his shirt. The feeling of his skin exposed and Aramis' hands on him made his knees go weak.   
Porthos carefully avoided pushing his hips or even grinding against him, because Aramis _would_ notice and he wasn’t sure what would happen, but then _oh_ \--  his question was answered when Aramis did exactly that.  
  
He grinded hard against Porthos, pressing closer and closer, tugging at him, and it was clear to Porthos that Aramis was just as hard.   
All the walls came down as Porthos moved against him, lost in the feeling, breathing hard against Aramis’ neck, clinging to him.  He didn't hear the music anymore, only Aramis' irregular breath and his own.  He was falling and nobody was there to catch him, but it was worth it.  
  
Porthos arched into Aramis, becoming more aware of how hard he had become every minute and Aramis moved back against him immediately, pushing his thigh between Porthos’ legs and let out a satisfied sigh. It felt amazing, it felt free, lost in the other’s body as they continued to dance. Porthos felt reckless.  
  
They molded together, before Aramis moved around in a semi-circle to push his back against Porthos’ chest and he moved his ass in circles against Porthos’ crotch and something definitely shortcut in Porthos’ brain. He could only whisper nonsense into Aramis’ ear as he pushed back against him.  
Aramis dropped his head softly against Porthos' shoulder, looking back at him, wickedly licking his lips and Porthos could only stare.  
“Baila, baila,” Aramis teasingly sang along in Spanish.

He desperately wanted to suck Aramis' lower lip between his own as Porthos’ eyes followed the movement, but he didn't. All he did was stare and continue their dangerous game of teasing and grinding.  He felt Aramis cling to his biceps and he stretched the muscles slowly on purpose.  
Aramis turned around again, softly pushed his cheek against Porthos', their noses aligning and he held on to Porthos as though he was afraid to drown if he let go.

  
\--

_  
Add it to the list of things we will never talk about_ Porthos thought when he walked to La Reina the next morning, head pounding from the night before. Treville had given him a drink for his hangover that had had helped a little, but the taste had made him pause to ask what the captain had put in it. As long as it cured his hangover he wasn't sure if he wanted to know.  
  
He forgot about his momentary disappointment in himself, in Aramis, the moment he arrived at la Reina. It was still early and Constance was already outside playing chairs on the pavement. From a distance she had appeared the same, but Porthos, grown attuned to her, noticed something different about her immediately.  
Not exactly in a bad way, but she wasn’t the same.  
  
He stopped in his steps and she looked up to him, unsure of how to interpret her glance.  
_Serious, no thoughtful_ , he concluded and he gave her a  quiet smile in return.  She nodded slowly to him, a small watery smile of her own appeared on her face at last.  
  
He stepped towards her in great slides, offering up his arms for an embrace. She slung herself in them, her emotions clearly overwhelming her and she clung to him tightlu. He held onto her closely, trying to convey his love, his understanding in his hug. She seemed to understand.  
  
“Thank you,” she whispered quietly, breaking the silence. “Yesterday,” she continued, “Aramis, he... he said you had woken them up from their stupor, that’s why he came.”  
  
“It was all you,” Porthos said, not entirely sure what had happened, but guessing she had left her husband at last.  
  
He felt himself become overwhelmed by his own emotions for this girl. “You are very brave,” he said hugging her even tighter.  
  
She smiled at him, shrugging again. He supposed she still had a lot to learn.  
  
“I’m staying with Anne, above the café,” Constance explained, answering one of his unspoken questions.  
  
As they entered the restaurant arms linked Porthos wondered what the hell Aramis had done to convince Constance to leave that bastard of her husband.  
He felt a pang of shame for his own confusion, considering how Constance must feel, but he still he wanted to be angry with Anne especially for not doing anything and now suddenly helping.  
  
_They were her friends, why did it take so long_ , questions that had no answer but his mind circled around.  
He felt a great sense of relief, _of course, Constance was safe_ , and this anti-climax of his worries was good, but strange.  
  
He lighted a cigarette as he leaned against the counter. After two drags he put it out in the ash trash, unable to focus. Everything lately had been like a dream, he could only watch as events unfolded before him and he was getting tired of it.  
  
“Gracias a Dios, the pendejo is gone” Anne said as she slid next to him, taking his semi-finished cigarette and lighting it for herself.   
  
“Why does God always get the credit?” Porthos mumbled, avoiding eye-contact with her. He understood all too well how his hulking figure could make people imitated even without him wanting to, especially when he was in a state of confusion or distress. He studied her long fingers tipping the cigarette to the side, letting it burn up. He had never seen her take a drag for a cigarette as long as he knew her.  
  
“Better that He gets it, Porthos,” she added, “otherwise Aramis or you might end up in jail.”  
  
“So what the fuck happened?” Porthos asked, looking at her immediately this time.  
  
“Wait, you didn’t go home with Aramis yesterday?” she asked in return, and Porthos understood their confusion at last.  
  
He nodded in confirment.  
“We all figured yesterday would finally have been _the_ night,” she emphasized slowly.  
  
“I thought so too,” he said.  
  
“Hmm," was the only comment she gave him. "I don’t know the exact details, Porthos, only that Aramis and Constance arrived really late last evening with two bags stuffed with clothes, so you’re going to have to ask Aramis what exactly happened.”  
  
She dropped the unsmoked cigarette in the ashtray and he followed her to the kitchen to start the day, tempted to sigh dramatically for her attempt to avoid giving him a proper answer.  
  
  
\--  
  


Aramis was sitting close to Athos in their usual spot in the back of the restaurant.  
La Reina was closing early that day and except for a few other guests sitting outside they were alone in the café.  Anne and Constance had already gone upstairs and Porthos was working in the kitchen, preparing something for the next day.  
  
They sat in silence as they often did, sipping their drinks and thinking. Occasionally Aramis traced the bruises on his face carefully, not being to resist the temptation to touch, even though it hurt ever time he did it.  
He shamelessly studied the other man’s profile. Aramis was pretty sure Athos would deny it if he brought it up, but they were far more similar than they had realized.  
It was something he only had been confronted with after getting to know Porthos.  
  
_Porthos_ , who was so different than the two of them and by stark contrast had pointed out to Aramis why he and Athos were brothers in more ways than one.  
Porthos confronted pain, while they had invented their own ways of hiding. The two of them had a truce, to not speak of anything real, only occasionally question each other with a simple, “are you sure that’s a good idea?” But they never actually talked.  
Especially with regards to the network.  
  
“Respectful distance,” Porthos had called it.  
  
Aramis had tried to explain to him that it hadn’t always been like that, he and Athos had been different once, but his explanation had ended mid-sentence, realizing he wasn’t sure what had changed and fearing what would happen if he and Athos were completely honest to each other.  
  
  
“You ever wonder if we actually had gone through with it? If ‘we’ had been an ‘us’?” Aramis started.  
  
“It wouldn’t have worked,” Athos calmly responded, dismissing the possibility of a conversation immediately as he so often did.  
Aramis lighted two cigarettes before giving one to Athos who accepted it without words.  
  
  
“I think they would really work together well,” Aramis commented instead, after a few silent minutes.  
  
“Qué?” Athos responded, not understanding what Aramis was referring to.  
  
“Porthos and Alice, I think they could really have something. He told me they met up earlier again.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” Athos responded, if he felt any shock it was hidden behind a stoic mask.  
  
 Aramis shrugged. “They seem to really like each other.” He stared to the front of the café, taking slow drags from his cigarette.  
Athos was lighting another one, having finished the first one already.  
  
“How long are you going keep this act up? Be honest with me.”  
  
“Don’t be a hypocrite, Athos, like we’re ever honest with each other,” Aramis responded. He admitted quietly it was a pitiful attempt to defend himself.  
  
“It’s not about us, it’s about Porthos. And he deserves better than you leading him on with all of your... bullshit.”  
  
The words might have been hard if it hadn’t been for Athos soft way of speaking.  
  
“Language Athos,” Aramis said mockingly. “You know I’ve slept with men before.”  
  
“I’m not talking about sex, Aramis, if there is someone out there who knows everything about sex, it’s you. I know that.”  
  
“Then what do you want me to say?”  
  
“All I’m saying is that you always care about people, a bit too much for your own good, but never hold back, and with him you kinda do.”  
  
Aramis held still for a moment, for this was the most honest Athos had been with him for years, quietly revealing how much he cared about Porthos, about both of them. He had two choices,  either dismiss Athos and continue their respectful distance or say something truly honest and risk it.  
Risk being hurt, risk being brave for once.  
  
For Athos was right, he had been avoiding Porthos in a way, not by staying away --he couldn’t possibly stay away from this man-- but by keeping a  certain distance nonetheless.  
  
“I--” he started softly. He thought for a moment, how _did_ he feel?  
_Truly feel_ , not just because it was fun or because he was horny and Porthos was handsome and available.  
  
He kept quiet as Athos watched him. For a few moments he thought about everything Porthos  had been through, had told him during their long evening walks in the city. During those nights he had often  wondered how someone could be so optimistic and curious about life after having been hurt so many times, after being treated like absolute shit by most people he met.  
_Enfant du ghetto._ A title he wore with pride, rightfully so.  
  
And then the way Porthos spoke about his mother with so much affection, making it almost too intimate to listen to. About Paris with a mixture of disgust and love, jokingly asking if Aramis was going to use any of his stories in one of his books.  
  
Porthos wasn't just a world traveller, he was a time-traveller, as he followed Aramis through Santiago he witnessed him become a hundred years old and then 5 years in a blink. When Porthos spoke, time became slower and seconds lasted minutes.  
  
Some might have called it an epiphany, but Aramis was convinced for moment that God was whispering to him, showing him He had had a plan all along.   
He unconsciously crossed himself, a questioned whisper for forgiveness for ever doubting Him.  
  
“Oh” he said instead.  
  
“Oh.” Athos cheekily repeated with half a smile.  
  
Aramis ran his hand though his hair.  
  
“I fear I might have fucked it up already,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.  
  
“You were a little too intense again?”  
  
“I tried to kiss him the evening after we met,” Aramis admitted.  
  
“After the awkward meeting? Never mind-- of course you did.” Athos sympathetically patted him  on his back.  
  
“Please don't mock me Athos.”  
  
“Don’t be dramatic. Just speak with him, and don’t use your silver tongue for once. I mean, you’ve wooed him enough and he seems to be the kind of man that appreciates honest words above beautiful ones.”  
  
“What? No, you are mistaken, Athos. I have not wooing him, that's the problem, I should have been,” Aramis said frustratingly.  
  
“Please. As if. Don't play the fool when we both know you aren’t one. Haven’t you been picking him up from his shifts? Showing him Santiago, presenting him gifts? Have you not driven everywhere with him in the country-side? Not to mention that goddamn dancing from last nigh. Want me to go on?”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Yeah, oh again.” Athos said without pity, quiet again after his many words.  
  
“ _Miserere mei, Deus_ ,” Aramis whispered.  
  
“What you need to ask yourself is, are you going to keep inventing lies and invent monsters to prevent him from leaving, pretending you are haunted and you need his luck, even when he’s already staying?”  
  
“I’ve been asking him when he's leaving, while I have been the one running,” Aramis added, his tone high with the revelation, staring in the distance.  
Athos nodded solemnly. He looked hopeful and saddened at the same time.  
  
“You have not been to confession for a while now,” Athos started carefully.  
  
“I’ve not been since _Richelieu_ threw me out,” Aramis replied shortly. He took a deep breath, answering Athos' silent question: “but I agree, perhaps I can find redemption in something, someone else this time around.”  
  
Aramis stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back with more power than he had intended to and took two steps in the direction of the kitchen before he turned around back to Athos.  
“You and I,” he said softly,” we would have worked and you know it. If only you could admit that.”  
  
Athos chose to look the other way, breaking eye-contact to hide the emotions on his face and for a moment Aramis was tempted to touch his face softly.  
  
“You needn’t be afraid.”  
Aramis wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or Athos as he downed his drink for a little more courage and left in search of Porthos.

 

\--

  
  
Porthos was quietly working, listening to one of the records Aramis had given him, humming and deep in thought. So when Aramis quietly entered the backroom he didn’t hear him enter and Aramis' question shocked him out of his concentration.  
  
“So how was your date with Alice?”  
  
Porthos dropped his knife and cut himself by coincidence, quietly swearing under his breath.  
  
“Warn a guy next time will ya?” he responded instead, annoyed by his own clumsiness and Aramis' eternal way of making everything in him jitter and stumble, clench in his belly.  
  
He tried to wipe the blood away from his hand, but the bleeding wouldn't stop. He swore again, ignoring Aramis, and walked to the small bathroom next to the kitchen. Aramis followed closely, fidgeting a little with the hem of his shirt, the only indication that his question was, as always, more multi-layered than one understood without further consideration.  
Porthos, however, excelled in the skill of deciphering Aramis, one learned as their friendship had grown.  
  
“It wasn’t a date,” Porthos answered while attending his finger, “we just drank something together and chatted about her classes, our lives.”  
  
“Sounds like a date to me.”  
  
Porthos simply sighed. He felt so tired, not physically but mentally, of everything, _absolutely_   _everything_ , himself mostly, and he suddenly wished he could just be someone else for a little while. For even when things were going okay it all felt wrong.  
  
“I’m happy it wasn’t,” Aramis added tensely. The open relief on his face was gone in a second and quickly replaced with practiced nonchalance, as though Porthos didn't know him after all these weeks.  
  
Aramis softly took Porthos' wounded hand in his own and dapped a towel to the small cut. They were too close in the tiny bathroom, way too close and Porthos stepped back, smile not reaching his eyes, but he didn't pull his hand back either.  
  
“After all this time, I still don’t get you. Can’t read the pages of that coded book of yours,” he whispered. The small space gave him the urge to be quieter than usual.  
  
“I’ve been told before that I appear to be many people all at the same time,” Aramis admitted, his words coming out too sincere.  
Perhaps they were both too tired of avoidance, Porthos thought with a spark of hope, feeling it go through his body before the cold returned in its place.   
Always guessing around Aramis.  
  
“You should stop playing with me,” said Porthos, this time he did pull his hand back and now dry, bound it himself with a small bandage from the first-aid kid he had taken along.  
  
“It isn’t a game to me,” Aramis said, looking hurt and confused. To Porthos' surprise his stoic mask hadn't returned yet.  
  
“Whatever, a fucking hobby then,” he said brusquely, trying to brush past Aramis and leave the tiny space, but Aramis grabbed his arm and stopped him in his movement.  
  
“You are right, and I’m sorry,” Aramis said, color had risen to his cheeks and his hand was shaky on Porthos’ arm.  
  
“Don’t,” Porthos said, building up the wall that always rose and fell around Aramis.  
  
“It’s taken me a while, and um. I suppose...-- Christ." Aramis breathed out forcefully, as though it was a challenge to get out what he wanted to say.  
"Th truth is, it was Athos really who made me realize--”  
  
“Aramis, stop, please." Porthos interrupted him. "It’s okay, I understand. I mean, I really don't, but I’ll get over it. I’m going to leave and everything will be back to normal, no harm done. You don't have to worry.”  
  
Aramis’ face showed a clear mix of rejection and hurt, for a moment it appeared to Porthos that Aramis had lost all ability to hold up different pretenses. Porthos was missing something, unclear what Aramis was trying to tell him.  
  
“Okay,” he echoed Porthos and Porthos felt something hollow settle inside. They looked at each other, their emotions mirroring each other.  
  
“You promised to stay,” Aramis got out at last, his voice quiet, not holding it together anymore. "I understand that you're not interested, but you said you would stay." He sounded so lost. _"You promised..."_  
  
“What did you say?” Porthos said, dawning upon him how much he had mistaken Aramis'intentions. He felt hazy, not sure if he had heard what Aramis had said or if he had imagined it, hope creating mirages of words never spoken.  
  
“You don’t understand,” Aramis started. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”  
Now he was the one to turn away from Porthos and it was Porthos this time who stopped him. Their roles reversed.  
  
“Understand what, Aramis? Explain it to me, because I don’t deserve this,” Porthos said, trying to control his voice to not expose too much of his rekindled hope.  
  
“You are...” Aramis started, running his hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “You are terrifying to me. You are, excuse the cliché, like the pacific ocean, endless and deep and beautiful and you will be the end of me and now you’re going to leave again while I just found you. And I will drown _okay,_ I will drown without you. Of that I’m certain."  
He took a deep breath.  
"And I know I still can’t say what is in my heart because then you would know the truth about everything and see me for the coward I am, stripped naked, but I fear that you will still look at me as though I could pluck the stars from the sky and I've never-- I... I want you to stay, but I can't ask you for that.”  
  
Aramis let out a shuttered breath. Porthos looked at him in silenced awe.  
  
"I’m so scared all the time, my mind is always playing tricks on me, showing me signs from Gods and the devil, ghosts that come to hunt me,” he continued.   
“I don’t know what’s a lie and what's not anymore, but don’t want it to be an illusion. Not this. Please let this be real, _please--_ ”  
  
His voice hitched in his throat, as though he had let go of something that had been with him much longer than the few weeks Porthos had known him.  
His voice had become a whisper.   
“I don’t want to be a coward like Judas, to betray what you fight for, to betray... love.” His voice was soft, prolonging the last word, like he had given it all up and now he was empty, void of more confessions.  
  
Porthos didn’t know what to say. All he could do was watch this beautiful inspiring self-deprecating man in front of him and understand him, see him for who he really was and God, _what a sight it was,_ what a privilege.  
  
“As I said, forgot I mentioned anything,” Aramis said, stepping back quickly, running his hand through his hair, his relief making place for nerves and regret yet again.  
  
“No wait,” Porthos said, grabbing Aramis’ arm and pulling him back, bringing him even closer than before.  
  
“I understand." He simply said. "Your words are but a reflection of my own. But you in return must understand this: you’re not a coward if you aren’t brave all the time,” he said, choosing his words carefully, poetically, to convey all the affection he had for the other man, all the feelings that had been built up.  
  
Tears were quietly running down Aramis’ face, his emotions unbound for the first time in many years, and Porthos softly swept them away with the fingers of his unwounded hand, softly tracing the bruises that had shocked him so much when he had first seem them earlier that day.  
  
He tried to tell Aramis in his gesture and his smile that there was no need to be worried that he had said too much, to tell him how grateful he was, how he felt the same way.  
_You stay with me. Stay with me,_ he repeated in his head. A new mantra, this time one he could learn to love, he thought.  
  
(He couldn't be more wrong, but it would be weeks before that realization would come and hunt him.)  
  
-  
  
The air was still tense after Aramis’ rant, the silence was bristling like lightening in the air and Aramis stepped closer, stripped of his insecurity and with renewed confidence, returning to himself again, but for the first time since he came to Santiago as a kid with the exact knowledge of what he wanted.  
  
It seemed the most natural idea to lean in then, but he stopped halfway, squeezing his eyes shut. His body thrumming with anticipation.  _Please_.  
  
He wanted this, it felt like it was the only thing he had really cared about in a long time, and even after Porthos' confirmation, he didn’t want to think about how he would feel if he got rejected after all.  
And he didn't have to.  
Porthos softly put his right hand against Arami s' face and pulled him him up. He faintly thought how he had never been with someone who was taller than him, but his mind blanked after that. Porthos' lips brushed his softly, much softer than he had expected. Not born out of the fury of a passionate confession, but instead with a kind of tenderness that was almost too much for Aramis.  
  
He pushed back, biting Porthos lower lip softly and the other man sighed loudly. Porthos’ lips moved gently, flicking his tong against Aramis' lips and the kiss felt like coming home. Aramis wasn't even embarrassed for the cliché. It felt like they had always done this, many times before in another life time  and his lips parted without hesitation as Porthos’ tongue entered his mouth.  
The kiss grew more passionate, like they suddenly didn't have enough time, harder as they pushed against each other, as though it was making it easier for them to breath instead of making them breathless.  
  
Aramis felt a warmth spread though his body, a thrum under his skin as Aramis cupped Porthos’ face, holding him in place while Porthos hands wandered down his back. He o nly knew of Porthos in that moment. 

Aramis slowly started to pull back, still smiling into the kiss, but Porthos grabbed both his shoulder and pushed him against the wall, kissing him hard.  They fumbled a little bit, it wasn't perfect as their noses bumped, but they were finding each other, Porthos teasing him with his tongue and _oh_ \-- Aramis could do this for the rest of his life.  
  
“I’ve been wanting to do this forever,” Porthos said between the kisses, gasping for air, smiling broadly.  
  
“Why didn’t you?”  
Aramis laughed before he kissed back, even harder, pushing himself against Porthos who stumbled back a little. His thigh between the other man's legs.  
The answer was giving in the way Porthos kissed him back.

  
-

After a while, Aramis wasn't sure when, they stopped. They had both dropped themselves on the cold tile floor on the bathroom, a stark contrast with their heated bodies, leaning against each other and Aramis knew he was smiling ridiculously, but he couldn't control it. He looked up to Porthos, and just continued to smile and smile, even more so when Porthos laughed and pushed them closer, their bodies flush.  
  
Did Aramis love the sound of his laughter this much before? His wit was only slowly returning and he realized they hadn't actually spoken of anything, but for now it didn't matter.  
  
“Come swim with me?” Aramis asked.  
  
Porthos looked at him full of regret before he excused himself. “I want to, but...--”  
  
Aramis could feel his own face fall, he didn't know what he had expected after all of the kisses, but to be rejected this quickly was not among his thoughts.  
  
“No, no, no,” Porthos said, brushing his hands softly over Aramis’ sides. "It’s just that...remember, what I told you--I can’t swim?”  
  
“You can’t swim,” Aramis repeated incredulously, “--right, it makes even less sense now that I know you. I mean, you worked as a sailor in Marseilles!”  Aramis couldn't hide the surprise on his face, he remembered the story now, how Porthos had saved Athos from drowning in the Seine, but still, the man appeared to have been born on the ocean floor, wild with sea salt in his veins and had only risen to the surface out of curiosity.   
  
“I've loved the sea all my life, true, but after my mother drowned it started to terrify me and I never tried to learn to swim, still, somehow I couldn't stay away, I returned every time I left. And at some point I felt I was too old to learn to swim, it embarrassed me by then that I didn't know how to.” Porthos said off handily.  
  
“Fuck, I--,” Aramis said, unsure of the appropriate response. "I didn't know, about your mom" he added lamely.  
Porthos smiled, softly tracing Aramis’ scar on his neck.  
“How terrible to love what you fear,” Aramis added quietly, echoing Porthos’ own thought of the previous day.  
  
“Then come back home with me?” Aramis asked instead, teasingly. Porthos nodded and looked up again, to something above them, his broad smile plastered on his face. Aramis would never get enough of this, he knew for sure.  
  


\--  
  


_ Like from war, you don’t simply come home after a love like this, or so Treville had warned him. He would know, he was the soldier after all. _

  
\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there is an appropriate apology for the amount of time you had to wait for this chapter, but I thank all of you who are still with me from the bottom of my heart. Thank you. Thank you.
> 
> [spoilers]  
> They will finally have some fun in the next chapter, before you know, shit hits the fan in the form of a coup d'état, I promise you that.
> 
> For those who wondered about it: the story is catching up to chapter 1 at last.  
> Constance's story and the aftermath will be addressed again.
> 
> Since this part was already so long, I shortened Aramis' story and so it's conclusion is the only part left of it that will be posted with the next chapter.
> 
> \--Porthos listens to '[I Heard It Through the Grapevine](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Heard_It_Through_the_Grapevine)' while he's working in the kitchen, a song with quite an interesting history with regards to its meaning.


	7. Pro patria mori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Love is a religious experience' or the chapter in which we learn how Aramis lost his luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions and/or descriptions of: torture, attempted murder and a character dies in Aramis own story, so no one we actually know or really care about.
> 
> Also brief mention of Milady/Ninon, that will return in minor form in a later chapter.
> 
> As has shortly been noted before in previous chapter, this chapter also has time jumps.  
> The original idea behind it was that the story Aramis tells is the present time and Porthos' arrival in Santiago and what follows is thus the past.  
> It becomes the present again once they sleep together and Aramis starts to tell his story, thus coming all together.  
> All that happens after that (and has been hinted at before, like the coup and their stay in Paris) is either present or future tense.  
> I hope that makes sense!
> 
> __  
> Most importantly, much praise to[Jewel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jewel/pseuds/jewel), for being an absolutely amazing beta and encouraging me when I desperately needed it. Thank you <3

_(Aramis’ story continues)_

Abdalrahman had not expected them to succeed in their quest. For a long time their voyage had been one of bonding and friendship and although a certain goal had been set, it didn’t feel like the actual reason of their traveling.  
  
Or at least, that’s what he had told himself.  
  
Of course Abdalrahman knew how important this was for The Elk, but as is the case with many things in life, he was unsure how it would end. As long as they were underway, there hadn’t been a need to think about it.  
  
Yet there was a decision to be made now. They could no longer run away from the eventuality of their decisions.

He looked over the shores at the end of this side of the world. They were most unusual, a dark blue color, almost black. Beyond that there was a labyrinth, he could not see it due to the mist that covered the shores, but he had been told it was made out of stone and trees and stretched as far as the horizon.  
  
If they passed through it, they would arrive at a large gate before a red sea, colored by the blood of unnecessary civil wars. And then, at last, the island of things long lost.

Abdalrahman was tempted to ask the Seer for advice, but although the man had grown to like them, it pained him still what his gift forced him to see and so Abdalrahman didn’t press him.  
  
Once seen, never undone.

“What is so important _there_ that we can’t already find _here_?” the Seer asked.  
  
The Elk remained silent and looked sternly forward. They all understood, whether they agreed or not, and they didn’t ask again. They followed him in silence down the steep hill.  


They did not enter the labyrinth themselves. It formed around them  the further they descended. Before he could do anything about it, his friends had disappeared behind walls of rock and earth and Abdalrahman was alone after four months of continuous companionship.

He kept walking, believing his friends would do the same, when a light blinded him and made him stop in his steps. When he opened his eyes he realized it had been a reflection in a mirror, and behind him someone was approaching.

A man appeared. Had the situation been different, Abdalrahman might have wondered whether he had a lost twin.  
The likeness was uncanny, yet when the man stared back and smiled, Abdalrahman realized his mistake.  
  
His teeth were missing and it gave him a strange grimace, it deformed his voice. It sounded like the rumbling of ancient civilizations, a rasp that echoed screams. 

He spoke in short sentences like he never had enough time to complete them. He claimed he ruled a kingdom in the sea and had come to warn Abdalrahman not to repeat history.  
  
He once made a deal for his best friend’s life, a man who had been destined to die young, but saving his life hadn’t come easy. To be able to live he had been turned into a bloodthirsty horse that could only return to his human form by crawling on land.  
  
Alive, but in what way?  


They were cursed never to meet again, for the king, confined to the sea like Abdalrahman to the earth, could not come ashore without dying and searched many years for an answer to the paradox he found himself in.  
  
When he did, he chose to find Abdalrahman in his hour of need instead of meeting with his friend after two decades of separation.  
  
He kept mum on what exactly the danger was Abdalrahman would face, nor went into any details of his story whatsoever. Anybody with a critical mind would have called him a charlatan, but alas, Abdalrahman was blind to it and he realized this man held the answer to his problem.  
  
If the king could cross land when bound to water, it would be possible for Abdalrahman to cross the ocean while bound to land. His mirror nodded quietly in affirmation.   


Abdalrahman did not like this man and wondered briefly what it said about himself.  
The ancient king told him he would help only if returned the favor one day. Abdalrahman agreed without a second thought, knowing for sure that whatever the catch would be, it was worth it.

But things are never as easy as they appear.

His doppelgänger told him that a ferryman waited at the end of the labyrinth and that he had the power to  bind him to the earth so Abdalrahman would not be lost.  
Walk over the ocean floor and you will remain on land.  
  
And indeed after they had said their goodbyes with the promise to meet again, Abdalrahman met a ferryman with golden eyes, who looked at him sternly and at last the only words he spoke were “imagine your home.”  
  
Our young hero envisioned the faces of his family, the yellow valley and the mountains that had cradled him when he was a baby and stepped into the boat. He concentrated deeply until he felt himself anchored to the memory as the boat took him deeper into the water, down below, and to the island.

\--  
  
Aramis smiles to Porthos, who has settled in his impatience, quietly waiting for him to finish the fairy-tale. Aramis has enough memories for 200 years of books, but this one will be among the last stories he’ll ever tell.  
He isn’t aware of it yet, so he doesn’t feel the pressure to make it flawless.  
  
One day soon he will wake up and realize that he has down the unthinkable: he has made himself unable to write down his own story. The realization will overwhelm him with fear, in his vanity likening himself to Achilles.  
  
What would Aramis give up to be remembered forever?  
  
He forgets that he has already squandered that choice by destroying his own gift of story-telling. It’s the hubris of the young, the desperate wish to carve one’s name in the world’s history. Never mind that the Greek hero himself regretted what he had done.  
For Aramis, like most people, is unaware or has simply forgotten the conclusion of Achilles’ curse.  
  
Better to live as a slave to a poor farmer than to be king of the dead. Perhaps it's not so bad to be forgotten and uneventful life.  
  
But we’re getting ahead of things.  
  
This youthful arrogance is something Aramis isn’t estranged from, but there’s no reason for his anguish, for his salvation will be Porthos, who takes it upon himself to write it all down. A bit rigid at first, but finding the style of their story after practice.  
During the months spent in Santiago Aramis had taught Porthos how to bend the gift of story-writing to his will, unaware of his own tendency to teach others everything he knows. As should be expected from a good professor.  
**  
** It’s safe to say Aramis won’t be disappointed by _l’histoire_ that Porthos will capture in his phrases.   
  
For now, Aramis continues his own story.

\--

The Elk and the Seer helped Abdalrahman ashore. The other two looked as shellshocked as Abdalrahman felt, but he was out of breath and something stopped him from asking what they had seen. It felt too personal and there are some things you only discuss with your lover or mother.  
  
They joked that Abdalrahman had taken quite long, but clearly they were all relieved he hadn’t fallen apart into dust or mud.  


For a while things were well as they followed the Elk, searching for his home among the trash and more treasured items.  
  
The ferryman had warned Abdalrahman not to take too long, for no magical spell can bend nature against its will, just like love-potions don’t work and raising the death will bring nothing but sorrow and destruction, at worst an alternative universe is created.  
  
Time was slipping from Abdalrahman’s mind like sand might from your fingers. They could have spent days on the island already, he wouldn't have known.  
In their deep concentration they had forgotten the outside world, becoming lost themselves; for the rules of the island demand that nothing is allowed to be misplaced on the island. Everything has to be lost. 

He started to feel more and more ill, but said nothing. The Elk’s quest was more important. He looked mindlessly around, while memories became blurry until he wasn’t sure anymore what he was looking for. He kept walking nonetheless.  
  
In the background he could hear the Seer and the Elk mumble to each other.  
  
The Seer said, “it’s not here, we would have found it by now.”  
The Elk’s eyes watered from unshed tears but kept pressing that “he must be, he must be.”  
Abdalrahman didn’t have the energy to wonder who ‘he’ was.

He fell to his knees and looked up, the sun was high in the sky but it did not dry him. He held his hands up and saw that they were already slipping away, the mud returning to the shores it had come from, the clay from his nails to the earth.  
  
“Why can’t you go back home, al-Dakhil?”  
  
That was the question they should have asked themselves since the beginning. Abdalrahman tried to say it out loud, but when he opened his mouth, only wet sand spilled out. He could hear the rushing of the sea in his ears.  
He wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to be afraid or not.  
  
“You’ve doomed him in your selfishness,” the Seer said to the Elk, rushing to their friend’s side, but they could only watch as Abdalrahman began to crumble.  
  
He briefly remembered his conversation with the king, how he had lost his best friend and no matter where he went, his home was lost. He understood now what the king had tried to tell him: one’s true home isn’t a place, it is to be found in love for another.  
  
“It is worth it, Akhoonaa,” he tried to say, failing.  
The Elk looked at him with fear and held his friend close.  
  
The Seer stood up next to them, “what does he mean?” he asked in despair. “We should not have come here!” he continued, now truly in a panic. He was reminded once more that no matter how far he could look into the future, he could not control it.  
  
“I lost my son,” the Elk said, “he was just a boy when he was taken--”  
Unable to finish the sentence as his voice was shortened by hick-ups and tears.  
  
It was the bitter truth at last. They had looked in the wrong place. For the boy had most likely died and the dead aren’t lost at all, they dwell in the next world, one that was even harder to visit and come back from.  
  
“Don’t worry, al-Dakhil.” It came out as an unclear murmur, but the Seer with his impeccable hearing repeated the words out loud so the  Elk could understand. 

“You know how I love adventures.” Abdalrahman tried to joke, “I will make this next journey for you and send back your son if I can.”  
The Elk cried his foolish tears, in denying his loss, he had lost again.  
  
“Promise me you won’t follow me unless it’s your time,” Abdalrahman urged him, his last words had no symbolic worth, simply expressed his great worry.  
  
The Seer had tried to knead the sand together, but without a way to dry it and make it hard again, they could only watch. Tears flowed as he could do nothing to save his friend.

Abdalrahman had seen every corner of the world, but unlike the wind to which he was so alike, he had never rested, never laid down and been quiet for a while without sound, until the very moment he died.

\--  
  


“You let him die! Why would you do that?”  
  
Porthos stands up and walks away from the bed in frustration. The duvet drags behind him.  
Aramis looks mildly amused by the reaction. Porthos returns the gaze and there’s a spiteful fire in his eyes.  
Something dawns on him, his voice quiet and the hurt audible in his voice.  
  
“Are you trying to tell me I would just let you die in pursuit of my own betterment?”  
  
“Of course not! It’s just a story, Porthos.”  
  
But it wasn’t, Aramis knows this very well. After all he had constructed it in such a way that his source material was  undistinguishable  from his own life . 

Porthos had drawn the wrong conclusion, the story was meant to warn him for something else.  
Aramis tries to smile, but it becomes a grimace instead, like he can’t control his disappointment.  
  
The look on Porthos’ face shows he has realized this too and he becomes calmer immediately, he lets his head hang.  
  
“Aramis, going back home is never worth risking your life for.”  
  
_Still wrong._ Aramis slowly shakes his head, but the grimace has become a careful watery smile.  
  
“Then it doesn’t even have a moral, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you sometimes.” Porthos says, a high laugh escapes him. He hides his tears with his hands and a nonchalant head nod to the side, as if to say ‘nothing to see here, please don’t look.’   
He might not have been from Chile, but machismo is to be found in every place of the world. He pauses, wipes away the tears with the back of his right hand and lets out a deep sigh.  
  
“With those themes, you would think you’ve read the Bible too often,” he says. It’s a bit too forced, but it’s followed by a wink.  
Aramis knows he has been forgiven. 

He wishes he had brought the lemon meringue pie from the kitchen. Porthos would love it, no doubt. It has a sweet and sour taste to it, as Anne always says, “like love feels when you’ve just found it again.” 

 

* * *

 

 

There was beauty in vulnerability, Aramis could see that now.  
Porthos’ soft kisses on his neck; the divinity he had been looking for. An answer. God’s hand to be found in everything, showing him the way. He didn’t feel like a sinner when he whispered the words under his breath, not looking up to God, but down to the mortal man beneath him, _benedicimus te, adoramus te.  
  
_ Porthos let him, mentioning the need to learn Latin if they were to continue this, but making no protest, only encouraging moans as Aramis ran his hands over Porthos’ back, kissing him softly back.  
  
_Say my name_ , Aramis whispered in between, into the skin of the other man’s chest, and Porthos obliged with a chuckle.  
“ _Aramis.”_  
The way Porthos said ‘Aramis’ was always softer than he was used to hearing, the last syllable,   _-is,_ less stretched, softer than Aramis’ mother tongue and perhaps he could allow himself to think, _this_ was the language his name belonged to.  
  
The language it was supposed to have been said in all along. Not Spanish, but Parisian French.  
  
Aramis was used to kissing, he loved it, but all too often it was hasty, passionate, without too much attention. It was small rooms, clothes off, and quick quick quick. But this was kissing for the sake of kissing.  
  
Gracefully he continued them in grateful return , trailing from Porthos’ collarbones lower, softly ghosting over his ribs and further down he went.  Aramis kissed his belly, the inside of his thighs, teasing Porthos with suggestion.  
  
After he glanced up to ask permission to, in his own words, ‘quite frankly give him the best blowjob he’s ever had’, the vision of Theresa in ecstasy came to him as Porthos throws back his head in pleasure.

\--

 

Before they had moved through the city in trance. They might have considered it a ‘defining’ moment in their lives, but their excitement made it impossible for reflective moments and existential conclusions.  
It was something they would only  contemplate later when it all had passed.  
  
In the moment itself Aramis couldn’t help but think of Porthos’ stories of the _cours des miracles_ , the magic slums of Paris before it got her modern face.  
  
Had its inhabitants perhaps moved here after the Haussmannisation had brutally taken their home?  
  
As he passed through the crowds of his own city he became sure of it. No matter how many years he had already lived in Santiago, he continued to be awed by what he saw.  
  
The ivy that grew on houses to protect its people from witchcraft, the tropical flowers that sprung from the ground where a child had played. The men without faces on their way back home from work. Street vendors with nine silver eyes and smiles that held promises he was always tempted to find out. Women that wore dresses made of mirrors and seven years of bad luck.  
  
He nodded to each and every one of them. His brothers and sisters, children the city had taken in without question, locked in a labyrinth they couldn’t escape, didn’t want to escape. He expected he might find a minotaur one day.  
  
Never before had he wondered whether someone else was also a witness to these ordinary wonders, he assumed everyone saw them, a part of their daily lives. But walking with a foreigner at his side made him question  if it was not something to treasure instead .  
  
Even if Porthos saw the same things, did he understand the history of the city, of the land, and was he afraid for what Aramis loved so much?  
  
These were questions that reflected a deeper fear inside him, the question of whether Porthos would accept him and all the strangeness  alongside him. After all, it was part of him.  
His answer was giving with Porthos' occasional squeeze in Aramis hand and the bumping of their shoulders as they walked. Aramis smiled to himself, still not looking, but his unease was put to rest.  
  
_If he says please_ , Aramis thought, he would do anything for Porthos.  
  
Someone should not hold such power over another person.   
  
\--

They have sex, _make love_ if that’s what you want to call it, but for all his misplaced narcissism and deep -no matter how much he denies it- understanding of how he Romanticizes everything (capital R, always), Aramis can’t think of _love_ yet.  
  
It’s too brittle, even when Porthos is the anchor that holds him down. --By his wrists at the moment, the smirk on his face asking Aramis to surrender. He laughs. They laugh even louder when Aramis’ cat interrupts them.  
  
He’s never laughed this much during sex. Porthos is much funnier than Aramis, he can undermine Aramis’ political or romantic rants with one question, “transubstantiation is the one when you eat your own saint right?” and Aramis accuses him of being an uneducated heathen, just moments after he has called Porthos “the most clever man I’ve ever met.”  
  
He’s the first lover that brings humor into his bed and he doesn’t want to do without it ever again.

-  


Aramis quietly watches Porthos after they’ve finally managed to stop laughing.  
  
He thinks _body_ , as he kisses Porthos’ ribs, _blood_ , as he kisses the vein on Porthos’ wrist, _soul_ as he kisses Porthos’ heart and _divinity_ when he kisses Porthos’ mouth. His mamá would wash his mouth with soap, Anne would laugh until she fell off her chair if they both knew. He has no intention of telling them.  
  
It doesn’t feel like a sin-- he has considered that before hasn’t he? It’s almost like a déjà-vu, how the thought keeps returning to him.  
Agnès says déjà-vu means it’s simply the realization that you are looking directly into the eyes of your fate’s design: it feels like you’ve seen it before because you know it’s where you’re supposed to be. Destiny winks back.  
  
_Gracias a Dios_ he’s not a protestant, Aramis jokes to himself, he wouldn’t know how to live if every pleasure were deemed a sin. He suddenly giggles out loud.  
  
Porthos turns to him with one of his beautiful smiles and asks him why he’s chuckling to himself,  Aramis tells him, “just very happy to be a catholic” and somehow it sets off another burst of laughter.

The way they have sex releases something Aramis wasn’t aware of before, sometimes it’s full of passion and unleashed desires and sometimes it’s slow, stretching every second, making every minute worth it in discovering each other’s bodies and Aramis doesn’t  fear what Porthos finds.  


In the morning the bed is warm, a heavy weight next to him in the form of a gorgeous naked man.  
  
He wakes up and asks Aramis to tell him a story and Aramis obliges him. There is little holding him back and he speaks and talks and tells and by the end of the story he has changed. It feels like a test.  
  
The moment Porthos gets angry with him for letting his story-doppelgänger die on a beach while his friends just watch, Aramis can only smile and think, _love_ it is then. 

\--

(Aramis wonders sometimes which of them is David and which one is Jonathan and if that matters at all. But really, there is no question about it, he just entertains the thought.  
  
Porthos is David, the stranger that had slain a giant and he is Jonathan the prince hated by his father.  
It doesn’t matter, they say David loved Jonathan and God connected their souls. The bible is clear on that at least, one of the few things no one can twist for their own good and interpretation and it gives Aramis tranquility.  
  
He never explains it to Porthos, he’s an _incroyant_ after all, it simply wouldn’t give him the same comfort.)

\--

Aramis’ walls are covered with photos, scattered without a clear pattern. The frantic safekeepings of a man afraid to forget. They tell stories parallel to Porthos’ room, visual memory competing with the written word.  
  
When Aramis returns to the room, Porthos is studying a photo next to the bed.  
It’s from two weeks back.  
  
D’Artagnan had taken it, they had dressed up for his birthday, looking their sundays best and little bit ridiculous, but happy. Mostly because of high levels of intoxication, but it was all well meant nonetheless and it shows on the photo.  
  
Their large smiles turned to the young man taking the photo. Athos is placed in the middle as Porthos and himself flank his sides. They look like strangers. Aramis loves it, their happiness radiating so strongly that he still borrows from it every morning before he leaves for work.  
  
Aramis looks at the man before him.  He wonders if Porthos would feel offended if he told him he has changed.  
The stranger he had first met at Anne’s, with sagging shoulders and yet undeniable confidence in being unashamed of himself was another man than the one before him.  
  
Back then Aramis didn’t know, but Porthos is in many ways the opposite of Athos. He is defined by going forward instead of looking back in regret. Wine, smoking and sex and other escapades are pleasures, not an escape from life.  
  
Where Athos is self-depreciating about who he is, Porthos has pride.   
  
Aramis understands very well why Athos and Porthos are such close friends, they complement each other. Somehow he’s found himself in the middle of it- no, part of it.  
In retrospect it changes the meaning of his conversation with Athos from the other day.  
  
He settles next to Porthos on the bed, puts down the plates of food he has taken from the kitchen. It’s filled with strawberries, mango, papaya and guava. Two plates of lovers as Constance would have described it with a cheeky smile.  
  
He has forgotten the lemon meringue pie again.

Porthos turns around, looks at him with curiosity.  
  
“Who’s this?” he asks. He holds up another photo. A younger Aramis, long hair tied in a ponytail, beardless. His apprentice robes and next to him a catholic priest.  
  
Aramis, still naked, suddenly feels too warm. There’s a noose too tight around his neck. He inhales deeply, mentally trying to find something to grab onto and hold steady, to pretend it doesn’t matter much.  
  
He brushes his finger over the younger version of himself, full of youthful rigor, someone with so much faith, and stops on the other man’s face.  
  
_Richelieu._ His rise and fall had been bound to him.  
  


-

  
Richelieu died in Bogotá, Paramaribo and then again in Guayaquil.  
A child without name had brought him back, having kept vigil by his bed with the smile of an unbeliever. He returned with new secrets one can only learn in the world between the dead and the living.  
  
He had violated God’s laws. His soul was ripped in shreds until he lost it completely. Other men may have tried as he did, but none succeeded like Richelieu in discovering what God had hidden on purpose. Many were cursed to live on this earth not alive nor dead and Aramis tries to forget Marsac’s red eyes.  
  
Loyalty makes men do strange things, the idea of brotherhood and fighting for something greater than oneself makes them do far worse. Especially when you feel nothing could harm you with luck as a shield against all harm.  
  
He thinks of Guatemala. For him it’s become a story that happened to someone else, something that could have been written down in a book of Great Literature. Describing the events of the Great Dictator, the brave people who fought him and how few survived.  
  
Aramis can’t remember the names of their group, of the new president, of his brothers in arms. Only Zacapa.  
_Zacapa_ , the place he had once been from.  
  
The smell of scorched earth often returns to him along with the chirping sound of the cicadas. It wakes him up in the middle of the night, sweating and freezing at the same time, the symptoms of dreams made out of pure fear.  
  
_1966_ , the only number he remembers, the year or the amount of people disappearing?  
Tortured and killed, if found at all. Leftists and students.  
Were they actually caught, had they been revolutionaries at all or simple bystanders?  
He can’t admit to himself he doesn’t know, he likes it that people believe he fought for his ideals, that he suffered and survived and continued the good fight, no matter what happened to him.  
  
Not his first mask, not by far, but the one that has lasted the longest. The one he has started to believe himself.  
  
In one way or another, he had been taken in by Richelieu, a cardinal who promised the same things as the revolution did, but through faith. For days he was delirious from the lack of food, water and the wounds from the torture.  
A fever had taken him and almost everyone is vulnerable in such a state, it takes little to influence them for the rest of their lives.  
  
As a good priest was expected to do Richelieu sat by the patient’s bed for days and instead of praying, he whispered lies and set snares and made the young Aramis believe Richelieu had saved him, that Aramis had betrayed the men of his company.  
  
The cardinal twisted his relationship with Marsac and instead of the brief lovers they had been, made them best friends.  Told him his luck had turned away from him. No one likes cowards, not Dios, Jésus, not the goddesses his mother worshipped in secret, no one.  
He better not forget that.  
  
And later Aramis was bound to Richelieu through confession, the man knew everything about him, every horrible thing he had done, entrusted to him through faith and fear combined. Escape was no longer possible. Only through betrayal, but the seed of despair to be called a coward had taken root.

After Aramis' recovery had been brought to Santiago by an organization called the Flock of Michael, guided,  no,  ruled by Richelieu.  Aramis had finally returned to the city since his first visit when he had run away as a kid.  
  
He was told they were to be ‘the voice of the voiceless,’ to defend and protect human rights through a network of churches all over Latin America. An anonymous good Samaritan. What this exactly meant in practice was entirely unclear.  
  
The only question Aramis had asked was, “are you telling me Jésus was a Communist?”  
  
The priest, one of the many serving below Richelieu, had joked in response “he was more of a socialist, but that depends on who you ask”’ and Aramis had said _yes_. Of course he had.  
  
His true education had started and under the guise of professor, he became a soldier of Christ.

-

Aramis mindlessly traces ‘defend us in the hour of conflict’, the tattoo he has on his first rib.  
There are many tattoos on his body, some for vanity, some for symbolism, but mostly to hide the scars. On his legs cities are found that hide the strains of electrocution. On his back two scars of a whip, executed by someone who was interrupted midway, hidden by wings that spread over his back.  
With a smile he wonders which ones Porthos touched last night.

What he says to Porthos is, “I can barely remember this photo,” and if he isn’t careful the lie will be the first crack in their relationship before it has even started.  
  
He wishes for it so deeply he can almost hear Porthos say it, ‘I don’t care.’  
  
But Porthos stays silent, not giving in, which is precisely the reason why Aramis adores him, but he’s young and in love and doesn’t realize it’s what makes Porthos different than most people. Better than most people.

Anne always says that building a relationship with lies, is like building a house on sand: bound to collapse, but Aramis remembers his mother telling him that just because somebody does not speak of something, doesn't mean that they are lying. They are simply not ready.  
He has faith in these amazing women, but he loves Porthos even more and takes a deep breath.   
  
He starts to speak then, suddenly, quickly. Almost like he doesn't have enough time to catch up and prevent further damage. It’s the second long story of that morning. Like Porthos had once shared his own pain of his childhood with Aramis, he now entrusts Porthos with the name _Richelieu_ and all that the man has done to him.   
  
When the story is done and silence falls again Porthos turns the heartache around by asking him if he doesn’t know any happy stories “for once!” and so more kisses are exchanged and Aramis uses every creative bone left in his body to tell the story of how he had run away to Chile.  
He explains it with much joy to Porthos, who finds the idea of a 10-year old Aramis running away from home highly entertaining. It has the desired effect, it’s soothing and so the quarrels of before only linger shortly until they disappear entirely.

\--  


He wasn’t sure why he had chosen Chile specifically, but he was 10 years old, at the summit of his stubbornness and Chile seemed as far away as possible, which in many ways it was.  
  
He wanted to be away from his parents, who he felt spoiled him intensely and thus too much. He wanted to prove himself and it was the bravest thing he could imagine, not very creative but it would do the job. No to mention that Chile always had had a magical sound to him and he felt an unexplained urge to go there.  
  
He wasn’t a man yet, but of an age  in which  you discover many truths about this world and what had happened next was without a doubt one of Aramis’ favorite memories.  
  
His luck had helped him, as it always did, and without any real problems he had crossed the entire continent and arrived in Chile. It had been a clear sunday-morning, but he wasn’t too worried about skipping church for once.  
At the time he hadn’t wanted to be a priest at all, no child of 10 imagines that to be their dream job, and he had carelessly entered the city, which was relatively quiet due to mass.  
  
His parents had probably known what he was up to and had called ahead, for by an old gate near the city he had met a strange woman who told him she had been waiting for him.  
Her name was Santiago and she explained to him she was his biological mother. In one sentence the mystery of why he was so different from the villagers was explained and he had accepted it quietly.  
  
Still, he never called her his mother, she was too distant and cold. He loved the woman who had raised him more than anything and until the day he died he called her his mamá.  
  
  
Aramis describes the wonders of Santiago the way he saw them as a kid for the first time, bewildered and full of innocent awe. With the City by his side as his guide he had discovered her forgotten passages and visited houses than no one was allowed to see.  He saw history blend in with the present as if he could see to the multiple eras the city had lived through at the same time.  
It was in that week that he first found the swimming pool. Back then still in it's original state and glory.  
  
Like the woman herself the city was erratic and different than anything he had known before, but full of love as well and by the time he returned home he had decided he never wanted to go anywhere else again.  
  
After a while Aramis’ voice aches, the emotion taking its toll, and it dawns on him that this favorite memory of his is being replaced by the ones he has of the man in his bed.

  
\--

They should have had more time, to discover each other, to live.  
Porthos is supposed to come visit him at the university and gloat when finals come around by December, rubbing it in with much gleeful malice. Aramis would show Porthos the deserts made of flowers and the smell would remind Porthos for the rest of his life of Aramis.  
  
Anne would get pregnant and they would finally meet that infamous husband of hers, while Athos would refuse to go see a therapist because they are “all cheats, they charge by the hour, so they have reason to keep you,” but after a few days he would mention in between one debate and another that he’s had his first appointment. They would all nod solemnly.  
It was supposed to be revolutionary to say the least.  
  
For that and so much more there is no time. The City only watches as she had tried to warn her son. He’s stubborn like she is and that’s how they have always persevered. She understands his loyalty, but to survive he will have to leave.  
  
It’s time for her to find Milady de Winter. She’s the most practical woman the City knows.   
It’s time for a debt to be repaid and the city moves, the pressure of time she has never felt before urging her on not to be too late.

\--

  
Long before Milady came to Santiago, she had known a deep intense loss that had settled inside her and had spread like a disease through her body. Until it came pouring out of her, out of her ears, and nose and when she opened her mouth pure heartbreak came out.  
She didn’t mourn the loss of her husband’s love, as if she would give any man that power --however loving he had been-- but her own murder he had attempted and his betrayal.  


After she had been abandoned by everything she had once cared about, she had walked from the estate back to a nearby city.  
It took her hours for she was unable to catch a ride, her voice was raspy and her mourning overshadowed her power of seduction, but not her will to live and she kept moving.  
  
She made sure that no bitterness replaced the pain in her heart. It was in many ways what saved her and made it possible to live on without grudges.  For they are a direct form of self-destruction, one she escaped flawlessly.  
  
She arrived at the city when the sky was pink.  
The first thing she noticed in her daze was a large fiesta in one of the main plazas. A wild dancing moved as a coordinated beast over the square, a rhythm dictated by the breathtaking _atabaques_. It was the last samba at the end of _candomblé_ -ritual, she had witnessed it once before in Northern Brasil.  
  
A black man had approached her and hadn’t smiled, hadn’t promised anything as many others would have, except the sharing of grief. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, with broad shoulders and the stature of a military man.  
His skin was so dark it was almost blue.  
  
They danced and danced, and she threw herself into his arms, abandoning all control. He smelt of sweat and _vatapá_. His name was Galo and they would meet each other often after this. Sharing something as personal as a pain that takes over one’s body entirely makes for a life-long friendship.  
  
The dancing continued until the police broke it up and she was left alone in the plaza, tears flooding out until all the grief in her body had washed away into the drain. She would not ever speak of it again. A smile appeared on her face and she felt renewed with energy to start over.  


  
The City knew all of this because Milady had confessed it to a Spanish priest in the red church of Vera Cruz who never broke the  Seal of the Confessional of his parish, but no one can keep a secret when your own city comes to ask for it.   
Eventually he had died from the Spanish sickness, an irony one might have enjoyed if he hadn’t been so beloved.  


What the City didn’t know was that Galo was the father of a Haitian woman named Marie-Cessete and when Milady was asked to help, she did not say yes out of the goodness of her heart --it was something she did not believe in-- but because she recognized Galo’s eyes in Porthos and knew she had a duty to save his grandson.  


As for Milady herself, she found love again, with a woman this time. A blonde from the higher class with ideals as impregnable as the Andes mountains, although a bit naive as she had little experience with poverty herself and other matters of oppression beside gender.  
  
Still, a correct ideology and self-reflection are things one can learn, but what truly counts at the most basic level of justice is whether you were born with a good heart. And she was.

\--  
  


The church is cold. Abandoned. Holes in the roof show a sky full of stars, as though they have all gathered together to witness the events that are about to pass.  
  
It’s two days later.   
  
Aramis  walks past the statue of Santo Michaelo, the one that reminds him of Porthos. Broad and brave, a sword raisen high and firmly in his hand. His other hand behind his back, hiding something. There are shadows on his marble face, his expression distant and hidden by the lack of sun.  
Aramis crosses himself. It is a bad omen.  
  
Porthos is already waiting for him beside the altar. He’s dressed in black, appearing more like a protestant pastor than the catholic priest he is supposed to be. Aramis’ footsteps echo in the empty hall as he passes the benches.  
  
He slows down, hoping to soften the echos, but his arrival has already been announced by the doves that had flown away when he opened the door.  
  
Aramis finally stands next to him, but Porthos keeps looking forward. Aramis tries to breathe in the same rhythm as his lover, but he can’t, the tension in his body makes his breath short.  
  
He kneels down before the altar, _Dios te salve, María llenas eres de gracia_ , but he can’t get the words out, _ruega por nosotros pecadores_ , and instead turns around, pushing his face against Porthos’ knees, as if it's the only way he can continue his praying.  
  
He faintly notices his face is wet from tears but his eyes are dry.  
  
_My God is a jealous God_ , he thinks as Porthos softly strokes his head. His hands aren’t bloody, like Aramis had dreamt. It’s a blessing, but he has sinned, he can’t deny that anymore, not by falling in love with a man, but by loving him more than God.  
  
_What have I done._  
Aramis is unravelling at last. One wonders what kind of man will rise from its ruins.

 

\--

The question came into existence after that morning full of stories, for did they ever eat lemon meringue pie?  
We can only guess and therefore it became the deciding moment where the memory becomes jumbled.  
  
Perhaps it is where we should have stopped.  
  
For it is not true they stayed like that forever, but we can easily pretend if only we stopped reading the story.  
Sometimes it makes for a better ending, and if not that, at least a happy one.  
  
Yet the cruelty of the truth is, the story continues whether we want to or not. They will lose each other, that must have been clear by now.  
Porthos will pass days in pools, trying to remember that distinct smell and capture... something, _anything_.  
He misses him, and misses him, and it takes him over completely, until it slowly starts to fade again, for life continues and Porthos will meet others.  
  
He forgets certain curves of lines of ink on someone’s body. Grey hairs in a neat beard, glistering eyes, but he has his words to remember.  
Aramis forgets a scar on someone’s face that he can’t trace anymore, soft curls, a golden earring reflecting the sun. He disappears completely, what he did to cope with his loss we don’t know, but he at least has a photo to remember.  


And perhaps faith isn’t done with them after all, not the way they expected, not the way anyone could have predicted, and one day on the Notre-Dame square in Paris, Porthos will be out of breath and Aramis with a dark beard, they will recognize each other again.  
  
Only time will tell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel as though I have seldom committed so many sacrileges in one go. God forgive me for it...   
>  Some things that were mentioned that one might like to look up _aka_ what I shamelessly stole from others. Also, I realize not everyone was raised catholic or went to a catholic school, so I tried to add a few more references than I normally would (with wikipedia-links, but if you want to know more I can definitely recommend some books and/or other readings!).
> 
> ~Achilles' choice is terribly famous, to either die young but be forever remembered or die old and only be remembered by his family until slowly even they forget it, but I think his [regret](http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/odyssey/quotes.html) (scroll down to part 3, the whole quote is rather beautiful/significant) has always made the greatest impression on me as a kid.  
>  ~Chilean lemon meringue pie is made with condensed milk and I prefer it to other versions like the French one. Also, winter is the citrus season (woohoo) so they’re a bit early for the real good stuff.  
>  ~"benedicimus te, adoramus te" is from [Gloria (in excelsis deo)](http://www.yale.edu/adhoc/research_resources/liturgy/d_gloria.html)  
>  ~”Say my name” was inspired by Sandra Cisneros, who is one of my favorite authors of all time. It would be an anachronism if Aramis was referring to _[dulzura](https://redamancylit.wordpress.com/2013/11/09/dulzura/) _ directly, but for the sake of historical accuracy and copyright-reasons he is not ;)  
>  ~[Theresa in ecstasy](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ecstasy_of_Saint_Teresa), what can I say, Bernini tsss.  
>  ~Porthos mentions [transubstantiation](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transubstantiation) and Aramis thinks of body and blood, soul and divinity (of Christ) not much later, I only feel partially guilty.  
>  ~Definition of Déjà-vu is something a friend of mine often mentions, but I’m pretty sure it’s a quote from Fringe. Couldn’t find it, but shout-out to them.  
>  ~[David ](http://www.wouldjesusdiscriminate.org/biblical_evidence/david_jonathan.html)& [Jonathan](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_and_Jonathan) (two links)  
>  ~I recommend reading up on the [Guatemalan Civil War](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guatemalan_Civil_War%20), because few people outside the region seem to know about it. It’s also the background of Aramis’ childhood and life before he went to Santiago, he is in many ways (like Porthos expected) an exile himself.   
>  I recommend reading [Bitter Fruit](http://www.amazon.com/Bitter-Fruit-American-Guatemala-Expanded/dp/067401930X) if you are interested in reading what the USA had to do with it and the crimes they committed there.  
>  ~The Flock of Michael has been inspired by the real life organization called the [Vicarage of Solidarity](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prayer_to_Saint_Michael). I tried to create some kind of predecessor to it with the Flock. Read [this](http://www.archivovicaria.cl/archivos/VS4b4dd251d964a_13012010_1101am.pdf) if you want to know a bit more about its ideology and politics!  
>  I wanted Liberation theology (that Aramis has mentioned before) to be the foundation of the Flock and I took the [Prayer to Saint Michael](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prayer_to_Saint_Michael) and who he was as an inspiration for the name. It’s also where Aramis got his tattoo from.  
>  ~I like to play with the idea that we actually know very little about Marsac, for when was it ever confirmed he and Aramis were best buddies if friends at all?  What seems to bind them together is their shared trauma and shame. Nothing more... or maybe I didn’t pay enough attention during the episode. I don’t know why, but I would love to explore it more in meta or read about ideas from people in the fandom who are much smarter than I am and much more involved.  
>  ~[Flower deserts](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flowering_desert), I’ve never visited (yet!) unfortunately.  
>  ~[Candomblé](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Candombl%C3%A9), which you hopefully now will never forget about.  
>  ~Spanish disease = syphilis, him actually being Spanish and a priest, well, the cruel kind of irony.  Again, I feel like need to repent for some of the things I’ve written about this chapter, but alas, c'est la vie ;)


End file.
